In Her Lord's Stable (Arabella Book One)

by KA Halle

The men around Arabella in the forest were toying with her, enjoying her fear and the suspense of the chase. She flung herself behind a massive oak, struggling to catch her breath, clutching a fist to her chest to stifle the sob of desperation threatening to escape. If she waited here long enough, she fooled herself into thinking, mayhap they would move on to search for her elsewhere, in another part of the forest. Perhaps, then she could find her way back to the clearing where she'd been picking berries the morning long for Pettigrew's pies which he planned to serve at the inn that very evening.

Pettigrew! She remembered now, as her breathing ebbed along with her initial panic. Somehow, she knew that the men in search of her were the same men who had visited the inn on several occasions in the last weeks. Arabella's long chestnut tresses and trim hips had caught their eye. . . . .as well as the keen interest of the master they served. All of the men had demanded on each subsequent visit that Arabella, and she alone, must serve them their meal and tankards of ale. She had pleaded with Pettigrew and his shrew of a wife to let one of the other hired girls serve the men, but the soldiers were adamant, shouting for Arabella, and because, unlike the other girls, she was indentured to the Pettigrews, both husband and wife had threatened to beat her if she refused.

She had tried to maintain a low profile when in their presence, to remain aloof, so as not to encourage the louts the way the other maids did. Yet, they had insisted on teasing and tormenting her, taunting her with their crudity and obscene remarks. They had played with her, seizing her roughly about the waist, hauling her onto their laps where they tried to steal a kiss or fondle a pert breast. Arabella tried to ignore them as she moved among the men, twisting out of their reach to avoid groping hands, the inevitable pinch on her buttocks. Her ears had burned at their coarse comments as she set their trenchers of food and tankards of ale before them on rough-hewn tables. Her cheeks flushed angrily when any of the men dared to lift her skirts with the tip of a sword or the toe of a boot. But they'd only laughed among themselves, not at all ashamed of their piggish behavior, or put out by her indignation and discomfort. And all the while, Pettigrew had stood back by the kitchen door watching the scene repeat itself night after night, to make certain his serving maid did not offend his well-paying customers. His gimlet-eyed gaze was narrowed on her, not missing her rebuffs of his well-paying customers or the clink of the coins that were pitched her way, landing on the tables or rolling onto the floor.

His lordship, the one to whom these men swore their fealty, had merely sat in silence in a shadowed corner each night, watching over the rim of his tankard as his men enjoyed their sport. His black, enigmatic eyes had caught and held her own more than once in the course of his men's debauchery, but he had not reprimanded his men, had only gazed at her, his eyes rudely appraising her with keen assessment, as if he were looking at a prime piece of horseflesh and weighing her worth on the market. Arabella had turned her solemn gaze from his each time with a cold finger of apprehension sliding down her spine.

She remembered the evening when Pettigrew had been called before his lordship, the innkeeper throwing her an ominous glance as she passed him on her way to the kitchen. When the old wooden door banged crookedly on its hinges behind her, Mistress Pettigrew turned from the fire over which she'd been listlessly stirring a pot of stew, and promptly pitched the ladle at her, declaring that if there was trouble with his lordship, she'd know who was responsible and she'd have her husband take his strap to Arabella and beat her within an inch of her life for causing them so much grief

Arabella had trembled in fear then, knowing who his lordship was and wondering what complaint he might lodge against her. His lordship was very rich and very powerful. He held the loyalty of many a small village and hamlet that bordered his lands. Whatever the complaint, Pettigrew would deliver his lordship's retribution with glee. Arabella shuddered inwardly, already feeling the innkeeper's lash on the bare skin of her back.

Sensing Arabella's fear, Mistress Pettigrew sneered, then sniffed with disdain. Despite her unkempt looks and filthy habits, Missus Pettigrew felt Arabella was beneath her. Arabella was a comely lass and she attracted the eye of every man in the village, including her husband. She had long wanted Arabella gone from the inn. Mayhap, with his lordship's men taking an interest in her, they would take the girl back to Belsoie with them. The wench would deserve everything she got if they would only do so. The thought of it returned her quasi-good humor.She watched out of the corner of her eye, a smirk upon her unlovely face, as Arabella filled huge tankards of ale from a clay pitcher. She barked at the wench to retrieve her spoon from the corner where it had landed, and when Arabella gingerly handed it to her, the woman grabbed it up and stuck the ladle into the center of the thick stew, giving it a vigorous stir.

As Arabella retreated through the door, bearing the heavy tankards overflowing with ale, she glanced hesitantly toward the dark corner where his lordship presided, and where Pettigrew was now bowing and scraping obsequiously. She watched the greedy, gimlet-eyed innkeeper accept a bulging leather bag heavy with coin, which his lordship proffered. Both men glanced up at the same instant to see her standing there, observing the transaction, but she could gauge nothing of what might possibly have transpired between the two, neither from Pettigrew's nasty smile, nor his lordship's enigmatic gaze.

She had lived in dread the rest of the evening, wondering when she would be forced up the stairs of the inn to service the brutes. . . . .or his lordship, himself. For what else could Pettigrew have accepted payment for? Yet oddly, nothing happened that night, nor the next. In fact, the inn had remained strangely empty of the soldiers obnoxious presence for a week. Arabella had begun to breathe easier, thinking the worst was behind her. Mayhap, whatever business transaction the two men had conspired between them had nothing at all to do with her, she had fooled herself into believing.

Now, however, hiding behind a tree, lost in the woods, Arabella realized how wrong she had been to assume such a thing. Pettigrew had tricked her into coming out here to the woods alone, unprotected, on the pretext of picking berries for his pies! His lordship had been interested in her after all, having paid the greedy innkeeper well to ensure his cooperation in her capture. If she managed to escape, the villagers, least of all Pettigrew and his wife, would not be happy upon her return, especially if his lordship's men pursued her back to the little country hamlet, as they undoubtedly would, searching not only the inn, but every cottage high and low, until they found her. The villagers of Esty hamlet, as well as other neighboring villages, were not in fear of these men.

Indeed, they welcomed them into their midst, accepted the generous coin tossed recklessly upon a tabletop. Everyone knew his lordship's men paid regular visits to the villages. . . . .and why. Pettigrew and his village cohorts would be more than happy to turn her over to them, especially in exchange for the hefty reward from his lordship's coffers.

. . . . .Suddenly, Arabella became aware of the utter quiet which permeated the woods. A deep silence that, with no warning, seemed to have been absorbed by the very trees themselves. Not even a breath of wind stirred to riffle through the leaves above. The birds in their nests were strangely silent, though she was sure that, only moments ago, the woods had been filled with their trilling, sing-song communication. She strained to hear the stamping of a horse's hoof on hard-packed earth, the rustle of brush or the snapping of a twig, the impatient snort of a stallion. But she heard nothing.

She dared to breathe a sigh of relief. Mayhap, while she'd been lost in thought, the soldiers had moved off in another direction to look for her, which meant she could double back and make her way to the clearing where she'd dropped her basket. Then she could decide what to do. . . . .where to go. She certainly could not go back to the inn.

Arabella remained where she was a moment longer, then hearing nothing out of the ordinary, and feeling confident that she'd lost her pursuers at last, she stepped out and around the massive trunk of the tree. . . . .and bumped headlong into the barrel-chest of a bearded, grinning soldier.

Screaming in fright, Arabella turned on her heel to run, but her feet tangled in her long skirt and she tripped, falling hard to the ground, just as a group of men stepped out from behind surrounding trees and thick shrubbery, forming a loosely-knit circle around her.

She scrambled to her feet, backing away from the men, who slowly closed in around her. Turning around and around, like a wild young animal caught in a trap, she sought some slim chance of escape. . . . . .but there was none. Looking frantically into the faces that surrounded her, Arabella searched for some measure of mercy or pity on her, hapless creature that she was! . . . . but the expression on the men's faces were devoid of kindness or sympathy for her plight. Instead, their leering lascivious grins were the common looks men gave a comely wench caught alone and helpless. Their eyes raked down her slim, young body, undressing her already in their imaginations. Arabella's fingers curled and uncurled into small fists at her sides, her fingernails digging into the flesh of her palms. There were too many of them from which to protect herself, but she would fight tooth and nail, clawing and kicking, before they sought to lay hands on her.

Then, from behind the group of men, the tall, handsome, dark-eyed lord stepped forward into the circle to confront her . . and Arabella was at last resigned to her fate. She knew who he was. . . . .and why he was here.

"Arabella DuMarcheau of the hamlet of Esty," he stated in a rich, warm, not unpleasant voice, a smile slashing across his hard mouth as he spoke, carving deep grooves on either side of his chiseled features, "you are now, forthwith, the property of Lord John Thayer." he informed her. She saw for the first time the small length of rope he held taut in his hands as he walked toward her with slow, measured stride. "You can make this easy for yourself, wench. . . . .or you can make it difficult. . . . whichever you prefer."

Arabella knew now what was to happen to her. . . . .as she had seen it happen to many a village maid before her. With a small cry of desperation, she backed away from him as he advanced toward her, bumping up against yet another of the men who grabbed her upper arms, holding her fast. Arabella struggled within his grasp, attempting to kick his shins with her heels, but her long skirts impeded her efforts and his hands gripped her slim arms with ease, raising her feet slightly off the ground. The man laughed at her futile attempts to harm him, and his companions joined in. Before she could gather her wits about her, Lord Thayer swiftly and expertly tied her wrists together as they were held above her head.

"Take her to that tree over there." Lord Thayer indicated with an inclination of his dark head. "String her up on the lowest branch and let's have a look at her."

"Aye, yer lordship!" replied the burly man who held her, then unceremoniously slung her over his shoulder, striding with her toward the tree, where, with the help of a younger man, they hung Arabella on the thick tree limb from the knotted rope that bound her wrists.

She struggled, her feet kicking out furiously inches above the ground, but the branch held and she could do nothing but watch as the men crowded in for a better view.

The blade of a wicked-looking hunting knife flashed before her eyes. Before she could utter a sound, the steel of the blade arced toward her, the knife slicing through the material from collar to hem, exposing her flesh, shredding her dress until there was nothing left of it from collar to hem, exposing her flesh, shredding her dress until there was nothing left of it but jagged strips and tatters hanging from her taut body. The rags were torn from her, exposing her nudity to the group of leering men, all of whom had a fine appreciation for the female body. They regarded her blatantly, boldly, as if Arabella were a mare at auction. Lord Thayer walked slowly around her slim body, hanging taut from the tree, eyeing her assessingly.

"Her breasts are quite lovely." he remarked. "Small, but firm and high." He turned to the young man who nothing more than a prime piece of horseflesh they had come to assess and purchase at auction.

Hanging naked from the tree, Arabella struggled and screamed her outrage, but her bonds held, her body swaying slightly from the overhanging branch.

"Oh-ho! She's a feisty one, m'lord!" one of the men called jovially from the back of the group.

Lord Thayer, arms folded across his chest, eyed her up and down in a proprietary manner. "I think, with the proper discipline, she can be brought to heel." he stated casually, a smile playing at the hard edges of his mouth.

The thick tree limb from which she was strung jutted out far enough that he had assisted the burly soldier earlier. "Henri, pinch her nipples for us. I want to see how they react to being touched."

"Yes, m'lord."

As the younger man stepped forward, Arabella struggled to squirmed away from his outstretched fingers crying out, "No! Don't touch me!"

Lord Thayer sighed, shaking his head, obviously dismayed by her outburst. He motioned to one of his men, "Gag her. I despise such theatrics from the less tame ones. They're especially difficult when caught off guard like this."

Strong masculine hands cupped her chin, forcing her mouth open and stuffing in a piece of the material cut from her dress. Another strip of fabric was bound across her mouth and tied at the back of her head. Her outraged screams were now properly muffled to his lordship's satisfaction.

"Now, let us proceed!" he ordered jovially. He turned to his men. "As you already know, Lord Radegund wants a prime mare for his favorite stallion to mate with. He will pay dearly for her, so let us see if this young wench will suit our purpose. Henri! Pinch her nipples! Make them good and hard! Let's see what treasures she hides from us!"

The young man approached her once more, reaching out with nimble fingers to deftly pluck the tender, pink nipples of her breasts. He pinched them hard between his fingers, twisting them a little to make them stand out more prominently. Tears smarted in her eyes f just an instant, her head falling back so that her arms strained against the rope that held her bound to the branch of the tree. Her unbound hair fell in a dark wave down her back. The pink nubs of her breasts reddened and hardened instantly, protruding like newly conceived buds of twin flowers, causing all of the men in the group to send up a collective sigh of appreciation at the sight.

"Very nice." Lord Thayer murmured. He eyed the dark, curling hair between her thighs consideringly. "That," he pointed a long finger, "will have to come off." It was well-known among his men that Lord Thayer like his females with only a minimal amount of pubic hair, if any at all.

His lordship moved to Arabella's side and bending slightly from the waist, ran an expert hand down her quivering flank. "Her legs are long and well-porportioned. No hint of bow-leggedness as some I've seen." He straightened and came around to stand behind her. His sharp, critical eyes trailed from the top of her head, down the length of her chestnut tresses which fell in a soft swath past her slim waist, nearly to her ankles. "She has a beautiful mane of hair." He rubbed a lock of her hair between thumb and forefinger with appreciation. "Let us see what lies beneath it, shall we? Henri," he called to his servant, "gather up her hair and place it over her shoulder."

Henri gathered the heavy fall of her hair in both hands, placing it over one white, rounded shoulder, revealing the slender curve of her back, the trim hips, and shapely buttocks.

"The buttocks look tender, untouched." Thayer remarked, eyes narrowed, as Arabella sobbed with shame behind the gag. He placed on large palm on the cheek of her rump, squeezing hard.

Arabella stiffened at his touch, then thrashed her legs in a useless attempt to move away from his touch. Behind her, Thayer smiled, pleased that her flesh felt firm, yet supple beneath his hand. He drew back his arm and smacked her buttocks hard with the flat of his hand. The sudden, unexpected pain jarred her, and she screamed her fright, her indignation behind the cloth gag. His lordship smacked her again, and she gave a little hop forward on the tips of her toes. The men gathered around her, exchanged knowing smiles, and a chuckle here and there.

"Her lines are quite beautiful, m'lord." Henri spoke up. "Methinks, with discipline, she can be trained well."

"I quite agree, Henri." Lord Thayer continued his inspection of Arabella as he spoke to the young man. "That was a lovely little jump she gave. I had considered selling her to Lord Radegund after the mating ritual, but on second thought, she's too fine a piece of flesh to be left to the likes of him. I think, mayhap, the Lady Xaviera would like her for a birthday present. What do you think, Henri?"

"Tis a splendid idea, m'lord!" Henri explained. "You've been considering giving her ladyship a mare of her own for some time now. Her birthday two months hence would be a perfect opportunity."

"Yea," Lord Thayer said, "My lady will be quite pleased and surprised. So, Henri, what think you of the wench? Is she worth the time and trouble 'tis going to take to train her and get her ready for the festival?"

"If you look closely, m'lord, I suspect she is yet a virgin. Her breasts have certainly never nursed, not with those pink nipples! And her hips are still quite slim, as if they've never cradled a cock before."

"If she is a virgin, " Lord Thayer mused, "Radegund will pay a king's ransom to see her mounted by his prized stallion." he paused, then asked, "What say you, Henri? You will have sole charge of her training and grooming. Should we take her back to

Belsoie? Have her thoroughly inspected before making a final decision?"

"I say yea, m'lord! I think t'would be well worth our time and effort, especially with the money Lord Radegund is certain to pay out for a virgin mare!"

"Alright then. Have the men tie her to the pole. Everyone will want a glimpse of our prize when we reach the stable yards."

Lord Thayer turned to mount his horse which had been brought forward by one of the men. He settled with arrogant ease into the saddle as Henri directed a couple of the soldiers to remove Arabella from the tree limb. They bound her wrists together with her ankles and slid a long, thick carrying pole through a loop made in the rope for the purpose so that she could be lifted and carried with ease between two horsemen supporting either end of the pole. The two guards hefted the pole to their shoulders with Arabella swinging freely from it like a trussed piglet they'd skinned and were about to place over the fire for roasting.

Ignoring the shame and humiliation which flamed in her cheeks and her moans of despair, muffled by the gag, the men were all in good humor since their early morning hunt had proved so fruitful. Laughing, they exchanged coarse jokes with one another as they mounted their horses, saddle leather creaking beneath their
weight, bits jangling merrily, as the animals tossed their heads, flicking their bushy tails, eager to be off.

'What is to happen to me now?' Arabella wondered in desperation. There was no one to know or care that Lord Thayer had kidnapped her in the middle of the wood at break of day. The villagers would merely laugh and shake their heads, when she failed to appear in their midst, saying, 'What a foolish wench to go traipsing off into the woods alone where anything might happen!' And in the meantime, Pettigrew, sitting at his table in the back room of the inn, not in the least chagrined over the loss of one of his girls, would be counting the money he'd bartered her for, biting the gold between his teeth to make sure he got the better bargain!

Although Arabella could not see from her ignominous position, Lord Thayer raised his arm, signaling to his men, then spurred his mount forward. The others touched their heels to their horses' flanks, starting at a swift pace as Arabella, bound securely to the carrying pole swung haphazardly back and forth, making her afraid she would be dropped to the ground and trampled underfoot. But gradually, as horses and riders found their own rhythm, she settled into a gentle swaying motion that would have put her to sleep had she not been so very frightened of what fate lay in store for her at the end of the journey.

Close this window [X]