The Devil of Nettlewood (The Anarchy Tales) by Louisa Trent

despised him.
    So be it. In these perilous times, he much preferred bloodletting thorns surrounding his castle to sweet-smelling daisies, much preferred invoking fear to affection in his populace. Label him fearsome, never beloved, and his lands would remain intact, whilst the unruly peasants he owned would stay alive—and in check—to hate him another day.
    The trick to keeping this wench alive and in check was for her to hate him too.
    Already she searched out and found his vulnerability with her talk of “mutual weakness.”
    And why her search?
    So that she might launch an opportunistic attack against him. Most likely, she would run back to her mercenary lover, the one who had deserted her after destroying Lord Harold’s settlement, and report her findings to the cur. That he would not allow—
    Or was that shortsighted of him?
    Better than giving him a name and a description, her escape might lead him to the mercenary leader’s hideout. Find that, and Spur would abort an eventual siege on his keep.
    A gentle and refined voice interrupted his contemplation. “Why the sudden haste to return to your holdings, my lord?”
    Though loathed to do it, he forced himself to turn away from her reddened posterior and meet her gaze, a gaze glued to his face.
    And not in fascination. Would that he believed that was so, but he was not so naive—or vain—as all that. Nay, she looked at him in speculation. The wench was trying to read him, trying to decipher what sort of man he was, no doubt so she could use the information against him.
    Fine. He would give her something to think about on their journey to his demesne.
    Just as the outlaw had done, Spur jerked his fist on the bulge of his tarse , his stones jumping within the loose wrap of his linen loincloth. “We leave as there is no further point in staying. I had what I wanted from you. You gave it to me of your own devious accord. That cocksucking should hold me apiece. And frankly, my insatiable slut, I would prefer getting it in your arse on a comfortable bed as opposed to a hard forest floor. I have all manner of oils and unguents in my solar, all manner of restraints and floggers. Since you are amenable, I would use them on you. Most women protest, but I suspect you will cry out for more.”
    Before his astounded eyes, the tips of her bound breasts elongated once more. Buckled beneath with a metal fastener, the nipples stretched outward.
    Even the mention of his devilish devices had excited the whore.
    “I assure you, my lord, I am as anxious to return to your fortress as are you. You have only to help me mount your destrier and we can be away.”
    “Since we met, your main objective has been to leave here. You asked me my motivation; now I shall ask you the same. What is your haste to leave? Something to do with your complicity in treason, perchance?”
    As if a chill had befallen her, she rubbed her bare arms, where gooseflesh prickled the skin. The clime was mild, which meant another reason had caused the bumps.
    “My reasons are personal, my lord, and must remain my own.”
    He let her answer go. For now. Part of exerting control—and leadership—as learning when to hold one’s strength in reserve and when to release it. He would not have the name of the mercenary troop’s leader straightaway, but he would have it eventually. And despite her nun’s demurely lowered gaze and her gentle and refined voice, he would not trust her. Trust was for fools, not for overlords responsible for the well-being of those who depended upon his protection.
    After pulling on his discarded garb and armor, he swatted her arse—no allowance made for the raised welts—and pulled her to her feet.
    Head still bowed, she stood before him, a little worse for wear after their brief acquaintance.
    Her bottom looked sore. Both breasts wore bruises, one a small cut from a knife prick. Her nipples were now both swollen, one showing a red stripe from his misplaced whip.
    Whilst noting