Darcy Branwyn

Worth Fighting For:

England, 1192

…“I won’t just let you go, and even if you were to leave me I would track you down. Do you think that I couldn’t find you?”

She hadn’t given that part much thought. “I assumed I wouldn’t make it through the winter anyway,” she admitted.

It took him a moment. “You were going to run away, knowing full well your odds?”

“I’m not simple. I know my odds.”

“Not simple, no. Just stubborn.”  He rolled off of her, Jennifer taking a full breath finally. Her reprieve was short lived however. No sooner had she sat up then he’d taken hold of her and she found herself face down over his lap.

“So help me, Matthew,” she gritted, squirming uselessly as he held her there with one hand on her lower back. He pulled the tunic up out of his way; she felt the draft. “Don’t you dare.”

“If you dare risk your life then, then yes, I’ll dare.”

The first swat stung and she gasped in surprise.

“I like the view from this angle,” he said, giving her another slap. It echoed in the room.

She felt embarrassed heat creep up her face. Her bruised cheek seemed to pound now with the beat of her heart. “I was trying to do what was best for you,” she said, squirming even though she knew it was useless.

She got a third swat for that one.

She sucked in a startled gasp. The heat in her face seemed to be spreading over her skin, and then that relentless ache budded within her. He had her there, bottom up and bared to him, trapped over his thighs and at his mercy.

And damn if she didn’t want him to touch her too. She swallowed hard, hoping he’d let her go; that he wouldn’t notice how overheated she was getting—wishing he wouldn’t let her go; hoping he’d noticed how overheated she was getting.

He released her and Jennifer slid off his lap, sitting back on the bed gingerly. Her arse stung but she hardly noticed it over the pounding pulse throughout her body…

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