Wren squirmed in the pillory, but the wood was heavy and the latch held quite well. Too well, in fact, for metal that should have rusted with age- she doubted it was really a relic left over from a more barbarous time, but rather something Lord Hugh had commissioned in recent memory for use in his own dungeon. She sighed and resigned herself to being stuck, naked, with her knees on the ground and her head and wrists locked in place. It was probably too late to tell Hugh that she'd changed her mind and would be happy to share his bed. When he'd come to the jail to get a good look at the newest female prisoner, he'd made her an offer, and she'd responded by sticking her tongue out. This did nothing to deter a tyrant who'd gotten used to treating the village jail as his own personal brothel; there was a bruise on her left breast from the liberties a guard had taken in wrestling her into his carriage.
Lord Hugh had the face of a fairy prince from a story book, lavender eyes, and light brown hair that framed his face ever so becomingly. She could not see any of this at the moment, though, as he was standing behind her with his hand appreciatively stroking her bottom.
"You should be thanking me," she grumbled. "You don't want any bastards running around the place, do you? The witches of this isle have been selling potions of fertility and barrenness since your grandfather's time, and no lord before you has ever complained!"
"Yes, well," came his silky voice, "my predecessors didn't take the unlicensed use of magic quite as seriously as I do." He gave her cheek a light, almost affectionate pat. "Girls who flout the law must be chastised somehow." Suddenly, his hand came down much harder, and Wren jerked in place at the sting on her backside. This must have pleased Hugh, as he slapped her three more times and then reached down and pinched her swinging breasts, even where one was already bruised. Better a spanking than the rack, she supposed, but that comparison didn't make the pain any duller.
Nobody had known the practice of magic would result in such indignity when the young lord took his father's place. The lords of Winterisle had alternately encouraged, tolerated or ignored witchcraft since anyone could remember, and nobody had ever had to go to the mainland to get an official license from the queen. Even hearing the rumors about the new lord's depravity, Wren hadn't thought anyone would really go to the trouble of arresting her for a few paltry potions. As Hugh aimed a few slaps even lower than her arse, she wished she'd studied battle magic instead.
"Lovely girl," he murmured. "I do like a plump thigh on a woman."
"Fuck you!" This response earned Wren another stroke between her legs. One of these days she was going to have to learn how to hold her tongue. Wren was stinging and reddened all over when Hugh finally stepped around in front of her. She was a bit nearsighted and he had taken away her glasses, but she was positioned perfectly to see the thick bulge in his trousers directly at her eye level.
"I think you need a lesson," Hugh said, "in the proper use of magic." Wren looked up in surprise as far as she could- she hadn't heard anyone say anything about the lord being a magician himself. He took a few steps away from her and brought forward an ornate wooden box, and Wren shook her head to get the curly chestnut hair out of her eyes as he opened it. At first she thought it contained some kind of porcelain figurines, and would have turned her head upward in questioning if the pilory had allowed for it. Lord Hugh squatted down beside the box, gave her an incongruously boyish grin, and removed two objects which he held directly in front of her face, and that was when she she began to understand.
