Honoria had never been so scared in all of her life, and yet she was doing her best not to show it. Given a choice, she would much rather have died in battle, as her brave brothers all seemed to have - and she knew her father - the man who had kept her safe from unseen monsters at night, who had held her within his strong, safe arms any time she was sick or scared, who had taught her how to hunt and fish and fight right along with his sons, who had kissed her goodbye this morning, hugging her tight to him as if he'd known what awaited him on the battlefield - was gone, having seen the very man who was standing behind her cut him down without a second's hesitation, as she had no doubt he would to her when he was done with her.
But she vowed to herself and to the spirit of her dead family that, if she found the chance to exact vengeance she would take it without hesitation, dying in the attempt and thus joining them in the glorious afterlife. She had to keep her eyes and her ears open, never knowing when the opportunity might present itself.
It was her mouth that was open just now, though, as that horrible, thin, whippy leather implement sang through the air to crack loudly across the flesh of her bottom that was only too prominently presented by the way her body was arched as she danced to its terrible tune - or rather tried to.
She had been ashamed that the first stripe had caused her to scream out loud, so she endeavored to keep her mouth shut against humiliating herself like that again, although she lost that battle more often than not, especially as livid red welt crossed over earlier ones, compounding the atrocious sting a thousand fold every time he laid a fresh track across her taut, soft skin.
There was a short - very short - moment of triumph, however, when she managed to marshal her defenses - weak though they were - and kick her leg out towards where she knew he was standing, landing what must've seemed an inconsequential blow to him on his shin - although she was quite satisfied with the surprised grunt her efforts bore.
But he didn't so much as pause, unfortunately, although she did hear him chuckle a bit in what sounded like admiration, although she knew it couldn't possibly be.
By the time he replaced the whip on the hook near her head, she could barely lift it. Her world had been reduced to that relatively small area of her backside - her buttocks and the backs of her thighs - which were on fire, cruelly seared over and over again with vicious, angry red lines left behind that pulsated and stung wickedly. She wanted nothing more than to be able to reach back and try to somehow soothe away the atrocious ache, but she couldn't imagine him allowing that, even if she did somehow manage to free her hands.
He paused to admire his handiwork, his hand almost floating over her skin. except when it stopped to painfully fondle a ridge here, a welt there. He could have used a harsher whip - he certainly owned enough of them - but one of the things that had struck him about her - besides her passion - was her beautiful, blemish free skin. Caius had rarely owned anything so perfect in all his life - even his wife bore the marks of the small pox she had lived through early in her life.
But not this woman. She was exquisite, her skin creamy everywhere it wasn't dusky rose from embarrassment at her predicament or bore the evidence of her recent punishment. If he could avoid doing so and still bring her to heel, he wouldn't use anything that would mark her permanently - unless he decided to brand or tattoo her, but that would be very different from the ugly mess a heavy whip would make of that gorgeous hide of hers.
He released her from the hook and hauled her back against him, forcing her to conform to the length of him as he towered over her, his hands roaming boldly over her, brutally squeezing the base of one breast in his fist while the other hand shoved itself between her legs.
Despite how much she hurt, she knew she could not tolerate what he was doing to her, so she forced herself not to wallow in her own misery and began to fight back as best she could, trying to remember everything her father had taught her about hand to hand combat, but she was fighting not only the man who was groping her, but her own paralyzing fear, too, which she knew had her losing the fight even before it had begun.
And yet she refused to stop trying.
There was that deep, almost indulgent chuckle again as he began to move towards the magnificent - and enormous - bed that was - surprisingly - more of a focus in the room than anything else. It was elaborately decorated and carved, sporting a breathtakingly beautiful spread that showed his crest in vivid colors she'd never seen before, its pattern elaborate and painstakingly created to best highlight it.
Honoria was suspicious that he wasn't doing more to subdue her - he kept a tight hold on her and let none of her attempts disrupt the way he was molesting or moving her, but he let her flail her arms and legs frantically, as she tried to heave herself away from him.
Before he brought them to the side of the bed, she recognized his tactic for what it was - he was letting her exhaust herself in a completely useless pursuit. She stopped what had been her increasingly violent attempts at breaking free and instead held herself board stiff within his hold, kicking herself internally for having wasted all that energy when she should have been alert and thinking and plotting and planning, observing everything she could about him and his environment for possible use later.
Cunning was the only way she was ever going to be able to best him. He was certainly much too big for her to physically overpower. But if she could, somehow, find a way to obtain a knife or a sword or literally anything sharp, she vowed that she would be the witness to his very last breath, even though she knew that, if she succeeded, it would very likely be her own, also.
It would be the least she could do in the memory of her fallen family and their warriors.
This woman was smart, Caius was forced to admit as he could practically see and feel the wheels turning in her head as she worked out that fact that he was just letting her tire herself out before the main event. But he hoped that wasn't all the fight she had left in her. He figured he could be pretty sure that she would feel compelled to try to avoid what he was going to do to her within the next few minutes.
Unless he missed his guess, he had the regionally famous Princess Honoria in his hands. She was well known about these parts for having been brought up by her father in much the same manner as her brothers. Her mother had died while she was still an infant, and the old King had doted on his only daughter, letting her learn skills that, as far as Caius was concerned, were ridiculous to teach to a woman - hand to hand combat, sword fighting, horse riding and such.
And where had all of that gotten her? For all her fancy skills, she had still been reduced to nothing more than what she was - the spoils of war. She was still going to be used in the manner women had been for millennia before now and probably after.
He threw her down onto the bed on her back and, as an agonized groan escaped her that she failed to stifle, she nonetheless immediately tried to scramble away, and he let her. It wasn't as if she was going to get far, and he enjoyed the hunt, the chase, enormously.
Almost a much as what followed.
Honoria, who was desperately trying to keep her head in all of this, thought of something suddenly that her father had mentioned to her, kind of in passing this morning, and she hadn't really understood its import because he seemed so discomfited in even mentioning it to her.
She lunged suddenly - not away from her tormenter, but closer to him - diving under the pillows at the head of the bed, desperately seeking, reaching with those largely incapacitated hands, hoping that what she wanted to find would be there.
And it was.
When she rose up, it was with a long, wicked looking dagger in her bound hands, holding it like a man would, and with an amazing amount of confidence, considering where she found herself. She rose with exquisite balance, towering over him menacingly, although he didn't look in the least concerned, his gaze flickering to her then away dismissively, as if he couldn't be bothered to worry about such a small threat.
She was aware that he was just baiting her, wanting her to feel insulted by his lack of concern, and she wanted to attack him badly, but she didn't. Instead she began to back away from him, reaching the opposite edge of the bed and not looking, just jumping down then rounding the end of the bed, edging towards him - now that she was on better footing - not trying to escape as most women in that position would have, but instead almost obsessively intent on doing him bodily harm.
He busied himself removing the accoutrement of battle - hanging his sword near the bed by its surprisingly plain leather belt and removing several knives he had secreted about his person to lay them on the table next to the bed - not even bothering to hide them from her or keep them out of her reach.
This was another set of less than subtle insults. He was quietly saying that he had no doubt that he could always get to the five or so knives he'd laid out very carefully before she could, that he didn't feel he needed to be armed around her, and that she wasn't the caliber of threat that warranted him remaining armed.
That he was supremely confident that he could take her bare handed, and that was exactly what he did.
Honoria drew closer to him still, her heart banging within her chest fit to split it open, body tense, ready for anything.
She thought.
But she hadn't counted on how quick he was, nor had she calculated his reach correctly - which many of his opponents didn't - and in the blink of an eye she found her hands grabbed at the wrist as he carefully avoided the wicked blade, twisting her around so that her back was to him and expertly exerting pressure on a particular point near her spine that produced agonizing pain and some sort of strange numbing feeling at the same time until she could no longer hold onto the weapon. The knife clattered to the floor and he kicked it well away from her.
She saw her last hope disappear under the bed and howled in rage. She knew she'd be consigning herself to death by doing so, but she wanted nothing more than to sink that dagger into his black heart and watch the light fade from his eyes. She wanted it so badly that she could taste it.
But what she got was shoved back down onto the bed, and this time he followed her there, laying himself atop her, still fully clothed, still a horrific sight - bathed in blood as he was while he bore down on her.
This time she fought him, not out of a sense of revenge, but out of nothing more than pure, primitive terror, and, as those feelings of helplessness and the inevitability of what she had only the barest inkling was going to happen to her, all of her training of mind and body fled and her puny, futile efforts began to more closely resemble those of all women who were put upon like this by men.
A malicious smile showed a starling slash of the white of his teeth against his red face. "That's it - fight me. I like a woman who tries to delay the inevitable. Makes the victory all the sweeter for me."
"And what a proud warrior you must be - crowing triumphantly over a helpless woman," she spat back at him, finding some of her bravado returning - unfortunately not nearly enough to do her any good. Although perhaps she could goad him into killing her before he dishonored her . . .
His smile remained frighteningly bright as his arm came up to pin her hands above her head. "Rest assured you will be punished for your attempt on my life. But before I get to that, I find myself in need of a woman, and you - pitiful as you are proving to be - are the only one here."
His open, wet mouth settling on her nipple made her try to jerk and buck in her attempts to rescue that delicate bit from him, but - to her absolute mortification - not because of the expected pain or revulsion at him doing so. No, it felt unbelievably - unacceptably - good, and that was exponentially worse, as far as Honoria was concerned, so much so that she was prompted to sneer, "Oh, it's a woman you want? I had heard that Roman soldiers preferred other Roman soldiers' - or better yet, young boys' - arses to women."
That seemed to get his attention, although not in the manner she intended at all.
He stretched out his full length over her, those thick thighs that were roped with muscle ruthlessly forcing themselves between hers until they were almost painfully spread beneath him, dragging his still clothed self up and over her, deliberately letting her feel that part of him that was most male as it prodded into her tummy.
Refusing to rise to her bait, he answered slowly, deliberately and in a harsh, threatening tone, "Oh, yes, make no mistake, it's female flesh that I crave, Princess Honoria." He grinned at her surprise as he said her name. "Because not only have I defeated every last one of your brave -" he enunciated the word out in a manner that let her know that he thought they were anything but " - soldiers, but I'm going to take it a step further - through you, as well as how my soldiers are going to avail themselves of the comfort every surviving female of your tribe offers. You'll spend your life from this moment either being bred to me until you're pregnant - and I'll make absolutely sure you enjoy every moment of my efforts in that area - or carrying my bastard. And once you've given birth, I'll get another on you and another and another. They'll all be at least half good Roman stock, and I'll see to it myself that they're raised to die in service of Rome."
She had screamed and cried and wept as this man had scourged her body. She had feared for her life as a knife was held to her throat earlier. She had watched her family fall around her on the field of battle and barely escaped with her own life.
But this - this was truly a fate worse than death.
And yet there was nothing she could do to stop him.
The tears, when they came, were silent and unstoppable. She could close her eyes and clench her teeth against them, but they seeped out anyway.
And it only got worse as he began to touch her.
Caius could see the emotions playing across her face - anger, fear, horror . . .
But he knew that the best - and the worst for her - was yet to come.
