Free Her Noble Lords by Ashe Barker Page A

punishment for her misdemeanours, and we will move on. Is that not so, my lady?”
    Ralf approaches the settle and sits beside me. Incredibly, he lays an arm across my shoulders and pulls me in toward his body. “Weep if you must, Eleanor and murmur your pretty apologies, too. When you are quite collected once more, you will accept the whipping you deserve for damn near doing me to death. Or maybe you won’t accept it but that makes no difference.”
    Despite my raw emotions and confusion, some sense of what is being said manages to penetrate. My husband is talking of whipping me but he also talks of the future and of moving on. Is there really a way forward? Will being punished make this whole tragic mess all right again?
    Is it really so simple?
    Maybe it is and I want it to be so. Just moments ago, I yearned for the opportunity to seek Ralf’s forgiveness for the wrong I did him but that appeared a hopeless dream. He was gone, lost to me, or so I thought. Now it seems I am to have my chance after all.
    “Yes, my lord. Anything. I just want you to forgive me. Then perhaps I can forgive myself.”
    “We shall see. Thirty strokes with the switch on your bare bottom and thighs should be sufficient to create the required degree of penitence I expect.”
    Thirty? Thirty strokes. Oh, dear Lord!
    Ralf continues. “Piers will administer the punishment as I find myself still somewhat fragile and unable to do proper justice to your needs.”
    “Piers? But I…” I raise my head to gaze from one to the other. Ralf is seated beside me, his body close enough to mine that I can feel the thick bandaging around his chest. His expression is more one of resigned regret than anger but I detect no softening of his resolve. Piers remains standing, several feet away. His muscular arms are folded, his features inscrutable. He does not appear angry any longer but neither should I expect any solace there. He will deliver a sound thrashing, in grim retribution for my attack on the brother who is so dear to him.
    So be it. I am ready.
    “It is to be here? Now?”
    Piers nods.
    “Not… in public?” I still retain the powerful image of the whipping I witnessed as a child, out in the bailey, the entire population of the castle and Egremont village looking on, cheering as justice was served.
    It is Ralf who answers. “As far as our household is concerned, you are my wife, the countess of Egremont. It is sufficient humiliation that you have spent the first weeks of your life here in our dungeons. I see no reason to undermine your position further.”
    “Thank you, my lord. But…” I hesitate, though only for a few moments. “I am not your countess. I cannot be since I am not Lady Eleanor. I know you do not believe that but ‘tis true and I cannot allow you to think otherwise.”
    Ralf scratches his chin in thought. “Ah, yes, as to that… it would appear that you have succeeded in convincing Hugh Belcher of your story.”
    “Yes, he believes me. He has spoken to you then?”
    My husband nods. “He has provided daily reports to us on your welfare, including the details of your conversations.”
    I had never considered that possibility. “He did not say. I thought…”
    Piers is the one to respond to that. “Hugh had his instructions, direct from me. He is a loyal and diligent servant to Egremont as well as a fair and humane jailer. That is why I placed you in his keeping and it is why he did not allow you to know we were monitoring your captivity.”
    “I believed I would be imprisoned, forgotten, until someone realised I was still alive and took the trouble to hang me.” I hang my head, the despair of the recent weeks starting to take its toll.
    Ralf gets to his feet and crosses the room to stand beside his brother. “Your physical punishment now will be severe, as you deserve but true contrition will come as much from the uncertainty you have borne and your emotional response to it. I trust you will be in no hurry to repeat the