TITLE    : The Bandit Knight Ch. 03
STORYID  : the-bandit-knight-ch-03
SUMMARY  : He takes her hand in marriage.
AUTHOR   : averagereptile@lit
DATE     : 2021-10-02
CATEGORY : non-consent-stories
FLAGS    : h
TAGS     : |wedding|forced|power dynamic|dominant|medieval|fantasy|doctor|hysteria|lady|knight|


Stress, hunger, and cold: Isabel could only withstand so much.

They hadn't been riding more than an hour when her head began to throb. The pain started as a thin thread of discomfort, but steadily inched towards agony.

The light shone too strongly; the leaves under the horses' feet seemed to crunch right in her ears. She wanted to fall back asleep, to escape into darkness and oblivion.

To avoid seeing Thomas, she stared down at where her thin hands gripped the horse's reins.

Surreal, to think the leather strap she now held had bound her wrists not long before. Her hands loosened as her eyes fluttered shut. She slumped forward, swaying in her saddle. The pain in her head made her feel like she was going to throw up.

Thomas glanced over at the lady beside him. Her freckled skin was paler than usual. Her reins were slack in her loose grip. She swayed forward, then to the side. He frowned. She swayed further, and with a curse he leapt out of his saddle and threw himself towards her horse.

She was going to fall and hit her head.

He reached her just in time. Thomas' strong arms encircled Isabel as she toppled off the roan horse. He kept her from falling, tightening his hold on her as he stared down at the limp, curvy beauty.

She stiffened in his grip. Isabel's eyes widened for a moment in surprise, then blinked back shut as she slumped against him.

"'Bel? What's wrong?" Worry strained his voice. Thomas brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes.

"Nothing," she mumbled softly.

"Are you unwell?" Thomas tilted her chin up towards him, inspecting her.

She nodded, her eyes shut. Even Isabel's lips looked pale. He adjusted the blanket better around her shoulders and hugged her tight against him, then peered down the road pensively.

Drat him, for losing the supplies and for letting her get so cold. She was a delicate creature; he knew that. What for him was regular, normal discomfort must have been torture for a well-bred flower like her.

She'd be better once they reached the town; a hot meal and a bed would set her straight. And not long after that they'd be at Carvaelon castle, where her every need would be tended to—and where she, in turn, could tend to his every need.

They might not make it to town by dark if he stopped now to let her rest. They had to carry on, whether she was up for it or not. The knight doubted she could stay in the saddle on her own. With a sigh, Thomas ran his hand down her back.

With Isabel leaning against him, Thomas turned her bridle's reins into a lead-line. He fastened her horse to his.

Then he lifted her up onto Vanquish. She didn't struggle, but nor did she help. She started to sway again on top of the large horse, slipping forward.

"Careful," he said. Thomas guided her hands to the warhorse's mane, encouraging her to hold on. Then he swiftly mounted behind her.

Isabel trembled as she leaned her face against Thomas' broad chest. Being pressed against her captor wasn't helping her anxiety, but his presence was oddly steadying. His smell was confusing, simultaneously an attractive musk and a horrible memory.

"Rest, 'bel," he said in a low rumble. She felt the vibration of his words through his skin. Despite herself, Isabel did as he commanded and drifted away.

~*~

The landscape crawled by, an ever-shifting tangle of leaves and roots and bark and sky. Shortly after noon they emerged into an overgrown field; a half-hour later and the path wound back into the woods.

Thomas glanced down at Isabel. She looked peaceful now, no longer troubled. She had not stirred in his arms for some time. Her weight pressed against him, and he felt an unfamiliar thrum in his heart. It felt uncomfortably like affection, not at her perfect little body but rather at... her. All of her.

Still: her body was a temptation against his ever-rampant lust. He had to clench his teeth to avoid groping her breasts. Yes, playing with her would have made the long ride more pleasant, but his Isabel needed to rest. He'd use her again when she was feeling better.

She stirred awake as they came to a crossroads; Thomas had moved to unhook his canteen and take another drink. Seeing her blink and straighten, Thomas wordlessly offered her water. Isabel took hold of the container and whetted her mouth.

"Feeling any better, my lady?"

She gulped and kept the mouth of the bottle pressed to her lips for a moment too long, trying to think.

In fact, she actually was feeling better. The pounding in her head had receded entirely.

But if the violent knight didn't know that... perhaps he'd be gentler with her. He might even let her sleep without forcing himself on her.

She shook her head and forced her hand to tremble slightly. Isabel let her eyes flutter shut again.

She mouthed the word no silently, then burrowed her face against his strong chest.

Thomas cursed under his breath. Isabel felt his fingers prying the canteen out of her grasp. Then he was cradling her head against him, and urging Vanquish onwards.

The next few hours were very different for Isabel than the last few had been. She was awake now, but still pressed against Thomas and unable to move away without arousing suspicion. The horse's movement rubbed their bodies together. She tilted her forehead against his chest and opened her eyes; saw the bulge at his crotch and blushed. She turned her head away, closed her eyes again, and pretended to sleep.

Instead, she busied herself with thoughts.

He'd promised indoor lodgings; she had to hope that meant a town.

Only: she did not remember there being any town between Doren and Gire, nor an inn or other lodgings.

She'd traveled the same path when she'd first married Hugh—Doren lay between her father's lands and Hugh's lands, so they had passed along the same roads and stopped to meet her sister's newest child on the way. Of course, Isabel had traveled in a carriage then, and there had been a tent with pillows and blankets—still. She remembered.

There had been no town. Just miles of forest.

Was Thomas taking her somewhere else, then? Not to her sister's hall as she'd asked?

He'd revealed himself to be a monster. If he was taking her to his own home, she might never see her freedom again.

Whatever indoor lodgings he was taking her to—whether a town, or a way house, or a farmstead—she would attempt an escape.

The more he kept his guard down, the easier it would be to slip through his grasp.

She'd keep acting ill, and do whatever he asked of her, and at some point she would find an opening to run.

Isabel forced herself, muscle by muscle, to go entirely limp in Thomas' arms. Her head lolled, and he caught it with a rough, calloused hand.

"We'll be there soon, 'bel, I promise," Thomas whispered, holding her tighter. "I'll find you a doctor, first thing I do."

The knight was beginning to grow uneasy, worried he'd somehow damaged the fine lady collapsing in his arms.

~*~

Thomas reined in the horses at the outskirts of the small settlement to ask after the town's master. As a nobleman, he could ask for lodging from any of the townsfolk, but the master would have the best house.

They were given directions; then the horse began to move again beneath Isabel. She took a deep breath and stirred a little, struggling to keep still after so many hours of faked illness.

"Almost there, 'bel," Thomas murmured to her.

A few more minutes' riding: she heard snippets of conversations, laughter, and children. Isabel cracked open an eye and secretly surveyed the small town. The people looked to be farmers, but it was a large enough place that she saw some small shops. That bode well; perhaps she could escape with a merchant caravan.

He almost certainly was not taking her to Doren. She could not have missed a town of this size. Dimly she remembered the crossroads where they had stopped; he must have turned away from the road to Doren there.

Then Thomas reined Vanquish to a halt again, and the knight slid off his horse. Isabel's eyes opened wide at the sudden absence of his support; a moment later Thomas gathered her into his arms.

"Is this Master Antol's house?" Thomas asked.

"Aye, 'tis," a woman replied in a thick uneducated burr.

"I am Sir Thomas of Carvaelon."

"Come in, m'lord, come in," the woman said hurriedly.

Isabel heard a number of footsteps and a swinging door. She cracked her eyes back open to see they'd disrupted the woman in the middle of hanging laundry on a line; two children were there also, watching Thomas with curious eyes. An older man, the patriarch of the house, stood in the doorway and watched them.

"The horses," Thomas said sharply.

"I've got 'em, m'lord," one of the youths replied.

Isabel felt Thomas stiffen at the words, and knew he was thinking the same thing as her: he was not a lord, and never would be.

"What's wrong with 'er?" the woman said.

"She needs a healer. She is the Lady Isabel, formerly of Gire."

"Up the stairs an' door on th' left—there's a bed."

Thomas took the creaking stairs two at a time, cradling Isabel. He carried her into a room that smelled like must and mold, then tucked her into a lumpy bed. The layers of blankets weighed heavily on Isabel, so warm she felt itchy.

"I'll be right back," he promised, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead before leaving the room. She heard the door shut and cracked her eyes open, then carefully sat.

It was a homely room, dim in the evening light. She saw a loom and a chest of drawers, but little else. Isabel couldn't see out the window from the bed. She longed to go to it and figure out where they were, but her eyes caught on the shut door instead.

Right back, Thomas had said. With a frustrated groan Isabel flopped back onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling. She didn't know how much longer she could keep still, but her very freedom might depend on doing just that.

~*~

Isabel focused on keeping her face tense with discomfort. Thomas sat on the bed, holding her hand; the doctor was on the other side. She'd remained mercifully clothed, but her body had been poked and prodded.

Now the doctor sat back and asked a string of questions: when had she last bled? Had this happened before? Had she consorted with any witches? Taken a blow to the head?

She fluttered her eyes open and then sank deeper into the bed, feigning an inability to answer. Isabel was afraid she'd say the wrong thing. The bed was comfortable, but only in comparison to the hard, dirty ground she'd spent the last night on. It was lumpy and uneven, stuffed with straw rather than feathers.

Thomas answered after a moment of silence from Isabel. He said nothing about the rapes or the abuse, but he detailed the bandit attack and Hugh's death.

"I believe it's Hysteria," the doctor pronounced. "She's been sheltered from hardship her whole life, good Sir. In my training I heard often of this, with women of fine breeding. With rest she will improve. It may help to wash her and fix her hair; young women often cannot cope with such changed circumstance. And likely, she mourns the loss of her jewelry as much as her husband."

Isabel had to fight not to stiffen at that comment. Yes; she liked nice things—that was no crime. But did the fool of a doctor really think all women were so shallow as that?

Evidently so. And it seemed Thomas did, too, since he didn't protest the doctor's words.

"But she'll be alright?" was all that Thomas said. "She will be fit for life outside a convent—to marry and breed?"

"Aye, she'll heal. If she gets worse, I will come back."

Thomas saw the doctor to the door, then returned to tighten the blankets around Isabel.

"Where are we?" Isabel whispered to him, unable to avoid the temptation.

"The town master of Tralton's house," Thomas said. "Can you eat, 'bel? You need your strength."

She nodded; she was ravenous. Thomas left. To Isabel's dismay, he returned with only a bowl of broth, nothing of real substance. The knight carefully sat her up in bed, then proceeded to feed her.

"I can..." she let her voice trail off, not finishing the thought: I can do it myself.

Better if he think her utterly weak. That way he would not be expecting it when she ran.

"Can what?" Thomas asked, but when she didn't answer he did not press. He sighed and said: "tomorrow we'll get you clean. A few more days on the road, 'bel, and then you never need travel again."

He finished feeding her. The liquid made her stomach feel full and yet empty at the same time; she craved something she could chew.

Thomas set the bowl aside and crawled into bed beside her.

"...Won't look proper," she begged him, feebly. "With us unmarried... in the same room..."

She couldn't so easily run away if he was in bed beside her.

He frowned and ran his big thumb over her hand.

"You need to stop worrying, 'bel," Thomas murmured. "I don't give a shit what townsfolk say; don't let it worry you. We'll be married as soon as you're feeling better. So what difference does a day or two make?"

Married. It was the first time he'd said it to her out loud. Her eyes widened and she gasped in fright; Thomas took that for excitement and smiled. If the talk of marriage had her feeling a little better already, Thomas thought, then he knew just how to lift her spirits.

Thomas peeled back the blankets and began to undress her.

"I'm unwell," she whispered.

"Sh, 'bel. I'll do all the work," he assured her.

Not only did he need this, but he was certain that she did, as well. If her delicate, weak mind was upset at difficulties of life on the road, surely the tender care of her noble lover, in a bed—albeit a peasant's bed—would be a partial cure.

"But I..."

He lifted a finger to her lips.

"Don't excite yourself, my lady," Thomas urged. "Just relax; I'll make you feel better."

He pulled the dress over her head, then removed her underthings, until Isabel lay shaking and bare in the dark room. Thomas tugged the blankets back up over them both. His breathing was loud, nearly a pant of desire, but the knight showed a rare restraint as he touched her.

His hands were gentle, delicate, tracing the contours of her womanly form with very little pressure. He caressed her nipples until they were stiff and aching; he stroked the line of her cheek and the swell of her hip. By the time he dipped between her legs she was wet with wanting him in a way that Isabel could not explain.

Carefully, slowly, his finger pressed circles around her clit. Soon it was a struggle for Isabel not to buck up against him. She let her head fall to the side as a moan snaked out of her mouth. Her fingers flexed, then buried into the bedsheets.

"There's a good girl, 'bel," Thomas whispered.

His finger dipped periodically inside her, to smear with her slick desire before manipulating her clit again. He pushed her further, deeper, into pleasure, until Isabel's breathing was sharp and her body coated in sweat; her hips vibrated against the bed as she fought back tiny gasps of desire.

At last Thomas disrobed himself and settled between her legs. His breathing was loud as the tip of his swollen cock pressed against her wet folds, then pushed inside. Thomas groaned and Isabel felt her whole body tighten around his fullness.

"Gently," she moaned, and Thomas did just that. His heavy body weighted her down as he drove his rigid length into her tight slick hole, again and again, gently dominating her with his insistent need. He kissed her slack mouth hungrily, and leaned his forehead against hers.

"I don't feel well," she moaned.

"You need to rest," he groaned. "This'll help, 'bel, just relax." Thomas found her hand and wove their fingers together. His cock drove home again, burying himself deep inside her. They both exhaled; Isabel bit her lower lip against a moan that threatened to escape. How could someone so terrible feel so good inside her?

Again and again he drove into her, until she could stand it no longer. Then Isabel's hips were lifting to meet Thomas' thrusts. His lips peeled back in a grin as their bodies connected, and his restraint began to fade.

Still, there was a quality of gentleness that had not been there before. As he sat up and lifted her knees up with his arms, she nearly cried out at the way the angle made him feel; so big her eyes rolled back. And Thomas held her legs up in a soft grip, careful not to bruise her as his rhythm changed. His thrusts were no longer soft and slow, but fast and hungry now. He rammed himself inside her and tossed his head back. A groan escaped his lips, even as his calloused hand gently stroked her thigh.

And then she felt him pulsing in her body's grip, as hot cum jolted out of his massive cock to flood inside her. He stayed in her until the last of it was spent, and then a few moments longer. Her body was so warm, so welcoming.

"Sleep, sweet lady," he murmured as he reluctantly disentangled himself from her legs. "You'll feel better in the morning."

~*~

Isabel really did feel ill the next morning, though not from anything incurable: she was merely starving, and groggy from oversleep.

The pain of her empty stomach made her certain she was going to heave her intestines out onto the bedroom floor. Instead, she squeezed her eyes shut and took deep, measured breaths.

"Any better?" Thomas' voice interrupted her focus. She peered up at him.

The knight stood over her, staring intently down at her face.

She screwed up her mouth and blinked up at him, the very picture of misery. Thomas sighed and frowned.

"Should I take you again? You slept soundly after you had my cock," he muttered, as much to himself as to her.

Isabel whet her lips to protest, but Thomas kept musing out loud.

"--Though, he said a bath might help," he said. "I'll have the wife of the house tend to you, 'bel, while I see to errands. Maybe that'll fix you."

Having decided for her, Thomas bent and pressed his lips to her forehead.

"I'll be back in a bit," Thomas said. "I'll send her up to care for you, 'bel. If you feel any worse, you'll have her call the doctor back, won't you?"

She mumbled agreement. Thomas sighed. He left the room, sparing a worried glance over his shoulder at the weak, bedridden woman.

Isabel listened to his heavy footsteps on the creaking stairs. She could hear a muffled conversation between him and a woman, too distant for her to pick out the words. Carefully Isabel found her dress on the ground and slipped it on. She swung her legs onto the ground and stretched her arms.

~*~

The woman of the house exhaled a big sigh of relief at the sight of Isabel pacing in the room.

Isabel could not bear to stay in bed a moment longer. Movement felt good to her over-rested muscles. She greeted the woman with a smile, and they exchanged names. The master's wife was named Eloise. Though older than either of her houseguests, she was still significantly younger than her husband—perhaps thirty to his fifty or sixty. Eloise had thin lips and heavy breasts.

"We've a washing tub'n the laundry," Eloise said with an awkward and off-balance curtsey. "My lads are fillin' it now, m'lady."

"Thank you. But I need food. And..." Isabel stopped her pacing and turned to Eloise. The older woman paled as the noblewoman searched her face, keen green eyes taking Eloise's full measure. At last Isabel nodded, as if deciding she could trust this poor, homely townswoman.

"...an'?" Eloise said, voice wobbling.

"And... for you to arrange passage for me, in secret. With a merchant, perhaps."

"M'lady..." Eloise took a step back, frowning.

"My father will pay. Handsomely."

"I don't understand. Your fine lord..."

"He's not a lord," Isabel said. "He's just a knight. And I don't want to marry him, Eloise; I need to escape. You must help me."
<hr pg="2" />"A Carvaelon knight," Eloise said softly. She blushed and bowed her head, not used to speaking to, much less standing up to, a noblewoman. "My lady, I daren't risk 'is wrath, or that of 'is family."

Isabel frowned and rubbed her forehead.

"You won't be harmed," Isabel said. "We can arrange it to look like you had no part..."

"He cares for you, m'lady," Eloise urged. "So worried, he was. And so pleasing t' the eye. I'm sure you'll be happy if you just..."

"You don't know him. Please..."

"Come eat, m'lady," Eloise begged. "Have your bath. Things will look better, I'm certain. If I had a han'some Carvaelon doting on me, I'd be in no hurry to get away."

Isabel nearly threw up her hands in exasperation. Good breeding merely made her tighten her hands together instead and draw in a deep breath.

Eloise had no right to disobey her. But then—Isabel frowned. Perhaps Eloise was right. She'd seen Thomas' violence. Wouldn't he punish these people? And terribly?

Still. She needed to get away. He wasn't taking her to Doren, and he meant to marry her. There had to be a way to escape without making Eloise look guilty.

It was true that any marriage would be false: she could not be wed without Roger of Gire's consent, which meant it would be a meaningless ceremony. But if Thomas towed her before other nobles and declared that she was his wife, and had been for days... Isabel would never be able to deny that he'd taken her. Repeatedly.

She'd be ruined.

She simply had to avoid a marriage, even a fake one, with Sir Thomas.

"Could you tell me who might help me, then?" Isabel asked. "If I went to the market, is there someone I could talk to, or..."

"I'm sorry, m'lady, I am, but..."

Isabel sighed. She'd have to go about this more delicately. For now, her head swam with hunger. One thing at a time.

"Very well. Lead on," Isabel relented. Eloise smiled and bobbed another curtsey; Isabel could not help but correct it in her head. Too shallow—off balance—hands at the wrong angle—back too bent. Her mother's voice was a stiff litany in Isabel's head, even now.

Frowning, Isabel lifted her skirts and followed Eloise down the creaking, filthy stairs.

~*~

The wooden laundry-tub looked scarcely cleaner than bathing in a stream. Isabel resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose, not wanting to look down on her hostess. The towel folded beside it looked threadbare and small.

The doctor's diagnosis still rang in her ears. I can do without fine things, Isabel thought to herself. Just watch me. I can bathe like a peasant just as well as any other.

"Did ye love 'im, then? Your Hugh?" Eloise asked, interrupting Isabel's thoughts.

Isabel sighed. She'd tried to explain her situation to Eloise as she'd eaten, then Eloise had led her to the washroom. The other woman still didn't seem to understand why Isabel was troubled.

"Does it matter?" Isabel said bitterly. "I don't wish to wed again. Not so soon. And not... him."

"I'd hate to be a widow," Eloise sympathized.

At least the water was warm, Isabel thought as she dipped a finger in it.

"Do ye need help disrobing, m'lady?" Eloise asked.

Isabel shook her head mutely. She wasn't ready to be undressed, even in front of another woman. Whatever comfort she'd once felt in her bare skin was gone.

Thomas had stripped that from her. But she didn't see what choice she had, if she didn't want to be filthy the rest of her life. She'd just have to be brave and face her fear head on.

"The window—" Isabel said, glancing at the room's opening. "You must have curtains?"

"No, m'lady," Eloise chuckled. "You needn't worry, there's none'll bother ye."

"I'd feel better if..."

Eloise huffed.

"I'll hang your dress over it," Eloise said.

Isabel bit her lip. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and wrenched her dress over her body before she could second guess herself. Covering her nakedness as well as she could, she watched as the homely woman bustled to the window and covered it. The dress was not a perfect fit, and though it hung over a wooden beam near the window, it left cracks that could be peered through. Still, the bulk of the view was obscured.

She stripped of her underthings and stepped quickly into the tub, sinking down with her hands over her round breasts. Thomas' bruises had not yet faded, and her hands did not quite cover the evidence of his punishment.

Eloise noticed the bruising, but rather than gasping in horror the homely woman just smirked.

"Passionate lover, is 'e?" she asked.

"Too passionate," Isabel muttered.

It was a small tub, and she had to keep her legs folded to fit. Even so, the water came up only as high as her nipples. She shivered and rearranged her hands, covering herself with just one arm so she could accept the bar of soap Eloise offered.

"Unless m'lady needs me to--?"

"No," Isabel said swiftly.

"If you wash yer hair first I'll brush it out," Eloise said.

Isabel slid uncomfortably forward, crushing herself together so she could get her hair wet. She scrubbed at it with the soap and then rinsed it as well as she could, releasing dirt and oil from her scalp. The soap smelled faintly of herbs.

Eloise gathered the dirty gold strands and tugged them gently over the lip of the tub, settling behind Isabel with a comb.

"Did you want to marry?" Isabel asked. She idly soaped one knee, free hand still covering herself. Perhaps if she could convince Eloise of how terrible Thomas was, the town master's wife would be more willing to help her.

"Well, m'lady, I—"

There was a loud crash outside, from the direction of the window.

"Scum," Thomas' voice bellowed. There was an answering yelp of pain, and the sound of a fist connecting with flesh. "You dare—you DARE."

Isabel threw herself out of the tub as Eloise struggled up to her feet. Grabbing the towel off the floor, Isabel wrenched it around her naked body as she ran for the door to the outside.

She emerged just in time to see Thomas draw his sword.

~*~

Thomas stared down at the town master. Rage clouded his vision; pounded so loudly in his head he could scarcely string two thoughts together.

The things he'd bought lay haphazard on the ground behind him; he'd thrown them aside the moment he saw what was happening.

He hadn't seen through the window, but he had no doubt what the master had been staring at. Isabel's dull black dress covered most of the building's opening—which meant she was not wearing it. What an innocent fool she was, to use her dress as a curtain; might as well have advertised to the town that she was on display behind it.

The older man knelt on the ground, chin trembling and hands above his head, begging for mercy.

Master Antol's trousers were down around his knees, his still-hard cock wobbling free. When Thomas found him, Antol's weathered hand had been wrapped around his short member, eagerly stroking his weeping head as he stared at the young treasure bathing inside his home.

Thomas drew his sword in a smooth, slow motion.

He barely noticed Isabel barrel out of the house, her freckled skin gleaming with water and a thin towel just covering her luscious nude form. Her thick thighs were bare for the world to see, as were her shoulders.

But Thomas didn't look at her. He was going to kill Antol, slowly. He had eyes for nobody but the hated, groveling man. Yes; Thomas would make him rue the day he was born.

"Please, sir," Antol begged, voice shaking. "Please, I meant no harm, I, I,"

"Shut your filthy mouth, worm," Thomas growled. "You are not worth the air you breath."

--And then Isabel was dragging at Thomas' arm, begging, as the towel loosened around her body. With a curse, Thomas dropped his sword to turn and grab at the covering.

"Have you no shame?" he snapped. "Get back inside, 'bel."

"Thomas, no! Don't kill him!"

"I said, get back—"

"Thomas, please! Not over me."

"He looked on you," Thomas said. His eyes glared into Isabel now, measuring her pale face and how her wet hair clung to her naked form. He heaved in a breath, his blood still pounding in his ears.

She was up—on her feet. Out of bed. She needed to be resting; she was ill. But here she was, hands wrapped around his arm, pressing herself up against him.

"He deserves to die," Thomas said again, slowly. "Go inside, 'bel, and cover yourself before someone thinks you really are a whore. You don't need to see this."

"Thomas," she begged. "Can you not spare him?"

"Please," Master Antol begged. Blood ran from his nose; tears streamed from his eyes.

"I will not," Thomas said, but Isabel could feel him softening under her touch.

The huge knight's muscles relaxed slightly. He bent and picked up his sword. "Go inside, Lady Isabel. I command you."

"As a..." she cleared her throat, voice dropping to a whisper. She closed her eyes and leaned her damp forehead against him as her heart pounded. "As a... a wedding gift, Thomas." Her hands tightened on his arm, begging him to focus on her rather than on delivering death.

His breath caught.

For a wedding gift, he'd give her anything she wanted.

But he didn't understand. Was his beautiful Isabel truly that unchaste? She'd cried and begged him to stop when he'd first touched her, and here was this hideous perverted peasant jerking at his rod, and she was standing near-naked in town and begging Thomas not to hurt a stranger--?

"Why?" he said bluntly, furrowing his eyebrows as he looked down at his woman.

"Don't make her a widow," was all she said, her voice still a whisper.

"Ah, 'bel..." Thomas sighed and sheathed his sword. He looked at her a moment longer, then back at the man. "Fine, though he deserves it not. For our wedding, I won't kill him."

He kicked the town master in the gut with a sick thud. The man sprawled back and rolled onto his side, sobbing and clutching himself.

"Get out of my sight," Thomas said coldly. "You will not return to your house until I have left it. Now come along, 'bel, you ought to be inside."

With a hand on her back, Thomas guided her inside. Eloise stood in the doorway shaking. She stepped back as Thomas approached, staring in horror at the knight.

"Thank you, m'lady," Eloise whispered as Isabel passed.

"Get my things," Thomas instructed Eloise, pointing behind him to the goods he'd bought. His face was steely, his voice flat. Eloise fumbled through a curtsey as Thomas urged Isabel inside.

His hands fell to her shoulders, holding her as he looked down at her. His dark eyes burned with a mix of anger and desire.

"'Bel, you..." his jaw worked; he licked his lip and rethought his words. Thomas drew a breath. "What a sorry job I've done of keeping you safe."

Isabel's breath caught. She peered up at him through her damp eyelashes, unable to believe that he was apologizing for his rough treatment.

She was right to doubt. He was not apologizing for any of the harm from his own hands. Only for what others had done to her.

"First the bandits, now this," Thomas muttered. "I'll do better. But won't you let me end him, 'bel--? And buy you something pretty instead, as your wedding gift?"

"No. No killing," she said softly.

Eloise returned, shutting the door with a trembling hand and setting down Thomas' things.

"The dress," Thomas said, holding his hand out. Eloise lunged down to grab it, then hurried to push it into Thomas' hand.

Thomas handed it to Isabel. She gulped and accepted the bundle of fabric.

It wasn't one of her own dresses. The coarse linen fabric was scratchy, a pale green skirt with a cheery yellow bodice. There was a grass stain on the skirt; Isabel wondered if he'd ripped it right off some peasant woman or had the decency to pay for it.

Knowing Thomas, Isabel thought he'd probably raped the woman who'd worn it. She sighed, cheeks red.

"Help her," Thomas ordered Eloise. To Isabel, he said: "I'll keep watch."

Eloise bobbed another curtsey. Thomas strode to the window. Eloise hurried to collect Isabel's underthings as Isabel dried off. Then Eloise picked up the dress as Isabel pulled up her stockings.

"Now will you help me?" Isabel breathed, so soft Thomas could not hear.

Eloise's shake of the head was minute.

"I daren't," the woman breathed back, her voice laced with regret. "I am sorry, m'lady."

"As am I," Isabel said. Eloise drew the dress over Isabel's head.

Thomas glanced over his shoulder and saw she was no longer bare. With one last glance out the empty window, he strode back towards Isabel. Eloise finished lacing the dress and stepped back.

It didn't fit quite right—a little too long in the leg, a little too tight around the bodice. The round of her breasts escaped over the lip, a sharp line of cleavage where the dress pushed her chest together. A bit of bruised skin protruded over the neckline.

"Do you need to lie down? Are you feeling alright?" he asked, eyes running over her prominent cleavage rather than focusing on her face.

Isabel took a shaky breath. She could lie and delay the wedding—or be truthful and leave Eloise and master Antol in peace.

If they stayed, would Thomas change his mind and kill the town master? The man deserved punishment, but not Thomas' kind.

"I'm feeling much better, Sir Thomas," she admitted.

"I'm glad to hear it, 'bel," he said.

He'd told her they would be married once she was better. And now she'd admitted that she was.

The marriage would be annulled. It had to be annulled. She took a deep breath and told herself that she'd face the future when she got there. For now, she had only to make it from one day to the next. She wondered briefly if she ought to tell him about the law; explain that they could not be married. She decided against it. She doubted Thomas would believe her or take the news well.

He rewarded her with a soft smile and reached out to cup her face with one of his massive hands.

"Can't I punish him some other way, 'bel? For what he did?"

"No," she said firmly. "He made a grave mistake, sir, but he'll never see me again."

"What a soft heart you have," he murmured. "And what a good mother you'll make."

"Maybe one day," she said with a blush.

"One day soon," he amended. He bent down and kissed her, his mouth firm. Isabel closed her eyes and let him. She didn't dare anger him now.

He took her hand. She thought he was trying to hold it, until his fingers found her wedding band and began to work it down her finger.

"Wait, what—" she said, pulling her hand back.

He caught her wrist and smoothly finished twisting the ring off her finger.

She gulped, lips trembling. Thomas glanced at her and smiled flatly.

"Here," he said. He threaded the ring onto a leather string that he'd bought and draped it around her neck, then tied a small knot. He pulled the ring forward, settling it just above the curve of her breasts. He traced his fingers across the curve of skin. "I'll get you a proper chain at Carvaelon, if you want to keep wearing it."

She reached down to touch the ring, brushing her fingers inadvertently against his.

"Thank you," she said, and surprised herself by meaning it.

His fingers ran higher, brushing against her soft lips. Isabel's mouth parted slightly, involuntarily.

"Did Hugh ever use your mouth?" Thomas asked, his voice strained with desire.

Isabel's eyes widened as her mouth snapped shut. She leaned back from him.

"Certainly not," she said firmly.

"Good," Thomas said. "I'm glad you've left some virginity for our wedding night, 'bel." He pulled her close against him. His cock was hard, eager at the sight of her too-tight dress and the thought of her mouth.

She bowed her head and let him press his body against hers. Isabel's breath caught.

"The next time I take you," he whispered in her ear, "I will be your husband, and you will belong to me in every way, my dear little slut."

~*~

The small chapel was on the other side of town. Thomas lifted Isabel back up onto Vanquish. Isabel patted the big warhorse's neck as Thomas mounted behind her.

"They're staring," Isabel whispered, peering up at him as they rode through the center of town. It was true. The town had turned silent; faces peered out of windows and from behind corners.

He glanced down at her, all dark eyes and sharp jaw, and Isabel hurriedly looked away. Thomas chuckled and leaned forward to brush his lips against her ear.

"You think they heard about the pretty whore who ran outside in nothing but a towel?" he whispered to her.

Isabel glared straight ahead, back going stiff.

"Maybe they heard about the brute with the sword," she muttered.

A part of her expected him to hit her, but he only laughed and pulled her closer back against him.

When they arrived, Thomas lifted her down from the saddle and tied Vanquish to a hitching post. Then the knight approached the chapel and pounded on the door with his fist.

A long moment later a mousy priest peeked his head out of the door.

"We've come to be wed," Thomas announced, taking Isabel by the hand.

The priest beckoned them inside. Dust motes danced in the beams of light that stone through high, narrow windows. Isabel kept her eyes on the wooden floor.

At the altar he asked them a few questions—had they come willingly; were either already wed to another.

Then he led them through their vows.

Not a real marriage; not a real marriage. It was a litany playing over and over in her head.

Thomas took her hands and turned to face her.

Isabel looked meekly at their hands, feeling once again detached from herself.

She'd said the same vows not a year before. Only then it had been Hugh, and she'd been in a fine silk-and-pearl gown, surrounded by family in a glorious cathedral. She'd been scared; she'd been hopeful; she'd been giddy.

Now she was only scared, and resigned.

Thomas tightened his hands; he was ashamed that they trembled slightly. This was utterly new to him, and unexpected, but something about it felt entirely right.

He was a little nervous, truth be told, but he knew deep inside that he was not making a mistake. Isabel, beautiful little slut that she was, was the perfect choice of bride for him. Even without his promise to Hugh to keep her safe.

"I, Thomas Carvaelon, take you Isabel Gire—"

"Forlin Gire," she whispered, including her father's house. She didn't know what possessed her to such boldness.

He quirked an eyebrow at her, surprised.

"Forlin Gire," Thomas repeated. "To supply and comfort, honor and keep; in sickness or health, long as we both shall live."

A woman's vows began differently. Isabel choked on each lie as it left her mouth.

"—to obey and serve, honor and keep; in sickness or health, long as we both shall live," she whispered.

Thomas produced rings; he'd bought her a plain hammered silver band too large for her ring finger. It slid loosely down her finger. Isabel stared at it, then glanced up at him. He frowned, removed it, and put it on her thumb instead. She half-smiled at the absurdity of it all.

She felt like she was in a player's performance. This could not possibly be real life.

Only it was.

"We are called to—" the priest began to say.

"On with it," Thomas urged. Isabel shot him a glare; she thought he could use a lecture on duty.

The priest ducked his head, and said: "Then I call you man and wife; kiss your bride."

Thomas wrapped one hand around Isabel's lower back, and one around the back of her head. Bending down, he pressed his lips against her and drank her in. For a long moment they stayed connected; his lips moved firmly against hers. Isabel bent to his command and followed his movements with her own.

Once more, she could feel his hard need pressing against her. The man had a bottomless, carnal appetite.

When Thomas straightened, he had a hungry look in his eye. He kept his hands around Isabel as the priest recorded their union. Then he offered them a certificate to sign and muttered that they could make an 'X' if they could not write. Thomas scoffed and scratched his name. Isabel signed hers with a flourish.
<hr pg="3" />Then there was wax dripped onto the paper, and both the priest's ring and Thomas' signet ring were pressed into the wax, and the marriage was sealed. Thomas inspected the document and tucked it into a pocket.

Not a real marriage, not a real marriage... the paper was meaningless, the vows empty...

He pulled her back towards him.

"Sir, no, it is a holy place—" the priest yelped, seeing how Thomas's hand was steadily creeping lower to knead at Isabel's rear.

"And ours is a holy union," Thomas growled. "Out, priest. We must consecrate."

"Truly, you cannot..."

"Out," Thomas groaned, sinking to his knees to bury his face against Isabel's chest.

The priest fled.

