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Ah. The silence drags on while she chews, eyes on me. Waiting for my reaction. “Just eat, Isabelle.”
Her eyes narrow like she’s concentrating. “Is it true?”
“Eat so I can take you out to the pillory.”
“I don’t want—”
“It doesn’t matter what you want. It’s what I want. Eat.”
Her eyes search mine and she takes a bite then wipes her hands, leaving the final slice untouched. I see the peaks of her nipples pressing against her dress. Notice the flush in her cheeks. It’s not the reaction I expected.
“Finished?” I ask.
She nods.
“Let’s go then.” I gesture to the door.
I don’t know if I expect her to run but she doesn’t. Instead, she slips off the stool and walks toward the door. I open it and she steps out and, without speaking, we walk toward the cemetery, the chapel. Her steps slow when I open the gate for her to walk through. I take her hand to lead her around the back of the building because the chapel isn’t where I want to be tonight.
She hesitates. It’s darker back here, the trees denser.
“Come,” I tell her. Not that she has a choice. I unlatch the heavy wooden door around the back of the building and pull it open. Candles are already lit inside, a hundred of them, the scent that of melting wax and abandonment.
“What is this?” she asks, stepping back to me, her eyes landing on the reason I brought her.
I rub my hands over her arms, keep her back against my chest. “Back in the days mass was said here it was the room the priests used to dress. That door connects it to the chapel.” I point to the short, narrow door.
At one wall is a leather couch. It’s been here since I can remember and the leather is worn, faded. Two large trunks, one containing the moth-eaten ceremonial robes the priests would wear, the other the items I need for tonight. The floor is stone and although it’s been swept it’s nowhere near clean. The ceiling is high, as high as the chapel ceiling but there is no dirt hill beneath this room. No one is buried underneath. Not that I know of at least. There is a single small window that’s boarded from the outside. If it weren’t for the candles, the room would be pitch black. Those candles stand on the floor along the walls, in small alcoves carved out as shelves, all around us.
And deeper in the room is the reason she’s here. The pillory I purchased tonight stands as the centerpiece. It’s covered by the red velvet cloth. Dex and the two men who carried it onto the auction floor brought it here and put it in place while the auction went on. It stands open now ready to receive my bride.
“Jericho?” Isabelle asks, turning in my arms to face me.
I look down at her, tug the cloak off her shoulders and let it drop to the dirty floor. Her dress is next. It’s easy to strip it off her, unzipping the short zipper at her back, a tug severing the cord holding the wide shoulders together, the silk sliding smoothly down her thighs so she’s standing in heels and panties. No bra.
“I want to go back,” she says when I take her wrists and walk her backwards.
“We’ll go back once we’re finished.” I bend my head down, draw her closer and kiss her. It’s a different kiss than usual. Softer. More sensual. I feel her body relax as our kiss deepens. Hear her quiet moan. I take her lower lip between mine, biting softly before releasing it and dragging the scruff of my jaw across her cheek until my mouth is next to her ear. I tug the cloth off the pillory.
“Are you ready?” I ask her.
She glances at it, shudders, turns back to me.
“Just you and me, Isabelle.”
Her throat works as she swallows and she gives a small nod.
I raise her arms and turn her to face the pillory, lean her toward it, bending her because this isn’t the exact pillory used during the marking. It’s similar but not the same. This one is set on a post and positioned so whoever it holds must bend at the hips. And it’s not as old as it’s made to look.
I bend her over, setting her wrists in their places, her pretty little neck in its center. I draw back and look at her. Think how perfect she is.
“You’re beautiful,” I tell her, tracing the ink that glows black in the candlelight.
I heave the heavy top piece in place, securing it and bend to kiss her shoulder. If I were cruel, I’d let her carry the full weight of it, but I’m not that cruel. She’ll feel the wood restraining her, feel her submission, but it won’t weigh more heavily than necessary.
I step back, listen to the sound of candle flames, to the sound of her breathing. I’m hard. With one hand I draw her panties over her hips and let them drop to the floor. She flexes her hands and I look across to the gold-plated antique mirror set against the wall just across from her. Our eyes meet and hold. I want to have her, to take her now, but we need to settle something between us.
I walk around her once, push a stray hair from her face as she looks up at me through thick lashes. When I’m behind her again I nudge her legs wide and press a hand to her lower back, so she’s arched and open for me. Obscenely spread for me. And as I have before I think about how she has this power to make me want. She’s no different than many others. She’s beautiful but so are others. But it’s her I want. This Bishop girl. And I can’t understand that.
