Hay Stalls & His Commands

The scent of hay hung heavy in the air, clinging to Bryn’s skin as Will pinned her down. The nervous snorts of the horses grazing nearby felt like a silent audience to their escalating game, a primal dance between innocence and something far more potent. Her breath hitched, a tiny gasp lost in the rising heat that consumed her. She could feel the insistent pressure of his hand, curling around her breast, igniting a fire deep within her. It wasn’t just the physical sensation; it was the memory of their shared laughter, the stolen kisses in the stables, the reckless abandon of their youthful pacts. Now, trapped beneath him, those memories morphed into an aching longing, a desperate yearning for the Will she once knew.

“Yes, you may, Will,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, her body trembling against his. The touch of his lips, initially hesitant, then growing bolder, sent shivers racing through her. A brief, frantic meeting of tongues ignited a spark, a primal connection that bypassed reason and plunged her directly into the depths of her desire. The world narrowed, focusing solely on the exquisite torment and pleasure of his kiss. She leaned into him, surrendering to the intoxicating rush, her heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird.

“Lady Westwood, I don’t think you’ve been listening to me,” Lord William Roland’s voice, clipped and precise, shattered the spell. He stood across from her on the terrace, a disapproving frown etched on his face, the epitome of the lordly demeanor she’d come to despise. “You do take our betrothal seriously, do you not?”

“No,” Bryn responded, her voice laced with a defiant challenge. “Do you?” Her eyebrows rose in a silent question, daring him to continue.

“Not until now,” Lord Roland said, pacing restlessly before her. The air thickened with unspoken tension, the scent of expensive cologne mixing with the earthy aroma of the garden. “But it alarms me you don’t. I was worried you’d be like this when I came back to marry you, Lady Westwood.”

“Oh come now?” Bryn chuckled, a dry, brittle sound. “Lady Westwood? And I suppose you want me to address you by your title too, Lord Roland? You know, I used to think we may have had something, Will.” A half smile played on her lips as she studied him, noticing the subtle changes in his features, the hardening of his jawline, the transformation from the awkward, slightly melancholic boy she’d once known to the polished, controlled gentleman he was now. The acne had vanished, replaced by the smooth, flawless skin of a man accustomed to luxury and privilege. His limbs, once ungainly and disproportionate, now moved with a confident grace, a testament to years spent honing his physique for the pleasure of others. The way his dark hair always slightly tousled across his forehead, a habit he’d always teased her about, was still there, but now it seemed to accentuate the arrogant cast of his expression.

“Lady Westwood, is that really the way you want to speak to your intended?” Lord Roland demanded, his voice laced with a hint of steel.

“There it is again! Lady Westwood this! Lady Westwood that! I’m tired of it. I want back to our youth where it was you and me making pacts in the garden and you and me experimenting with kissing in the stables.” Bryn rose to her feet, smoothing out the folds of her silk gown, her movements betraying a flicker of the rebellious spirit she’d so carefully suppressed. Her last words hung in the air, a pointed reminder of the past, an unspoken accusation aimed at his current persona.

Bryn rolled her eyes and gave him a quick, dismissive curtsey. “Good day, Lord Roland. I suppose if I must get married to you I shall. But I won’t do it happily to this self righteous, arrogant ass you’ve become.” Her words, sharp and biting, hung in the air, a clear signal of her displeasure.

“Oh, come now,” Lord Roland stood, his eyes narrowing. He took a step closer, his hand reaching out as if to take her hand. But Bryn was quick to anticipate his move, dodging his grasp with practiced ease. She turned and stormed off into the sprawling Westwood Hall, the weight of her resentment pressing down on her. Once inside, she found herself drawn to the opulent comfort of her chambers, collapsing against a cool, smooth stone column, tears welling in her eyes. The memory of Will, the boy she'd once cherished, haunted her, a painful reminder of the innocence she'd lost.

The wedding was a week away, an inescapable date looming over her like a storm cloud. She knew there was no way to avoid it, no matter how desperately she wished to escape the confines of her forced betrothal. Perhaps, she mused, this marriage wouldn’t be so bad after all. He wasn’t an ape. With all that properness, he’d surely treat her with respect, at least to some degree.

The sound of echoing footsteps on the marble floor jolted Bryn from her melancholic reverie. It was her stepmother, Emilia, a striking woman with fiery red hair and an air of effortless elegance. Bryn disliked Emilia, but she’d grown accustomed to her presence in the household since her own mother’s passing.

“He doesn’t look happy,” Emilia observed, her arms crossed over her chest. “Well, maybe I’m not happy either,” Bryn mumbled, her voice laced with bitterness.

“Did you get into a fight?” Emilia inquired, her gaze piercing.

“Not really,” Bryn admitted, her expression guarded.

“Good,” Emilia said, a hint of disapproval in her voice. “Please, smooth things over. He’s a wonderful match for you. Besides, I thought you told me you were friends? Not many girls are so lucky to marry a friend.”

“We used to be friends, now he’s very different,” Bryn stated, her words carrying a heavy weight of regret.

“Different or not, you’ve been betrothed since your eighth birthday. To go back on this match now would insult the Roland family more than a little,” Emilia reminded her, her tone firm.

“I’ll go back to him,” Bryn promised, her voice resolute.

“Good girl,” Emilia said, nodding approvingly. “He’s in the garden.”

Bryn reluctantly made her way back into the manicured splendor of the Westwood gardens, where Lord Roland waited, radiating an aura of controlled power. His handsome face, once familiar and comforting, now seemed distant and unapproachable. The arrogance in his stance, the rigid posture, confirmed her suspicions: he was no longer the boy she’d known, the one who had once stolen kisses in the stables. He had transformed into a polished, detached nobleman, an entirely different person.

“Bryn,” Lord Roland greeted her, his voice devoid of warmth. “I do believe you’ve been listening to me again.”

“Oh,” Bryn responded, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “Well, Lord Roland. Continue, please. What were you saying?”

“You’re very beautiful, Lady Westwood. It’s been four years and I can’t believe how much you’ve changed.” His words, though flattering, felt strangely hollow, devoid of genuine affection.

“I was ugly before?” Bryn chuckled, a wry smile playing on her lips.

“No, you’ve never been ugly,” Lord Roland corrected, his tone slightly exasperated. “Just, you’ve well… you are even prettier than I remembered.”

As he spoke, Bryn felt a strange sensation, a stirring deep within her that she couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t just the physical attraction to his handsome face, but something more primal, more visceral. The memory of their shared intimacy, the reckless abandon of their youthful pacts, suddenly surged back, threatening to overwhelm her composure. The scent of the garden, the warmth of the sun on her skin, the distant sounds of the horses, all contributed to the escalating tension.

“Shall we discuss our wedding?” Lord Roland asked, breaking the silence.

“No need,” Bryn stated, her voice trembling slightly. “It is already planned.”

“What do you want to discuss?” Lord Roland inquired, his eyes searching hers. “Is there anything on your mind? What led to your change of heart?”

“I realized I shouldn’t expect things to be the way they were. We are now quite grown and have left our childish ways far behind.”

“I am glad you feel that way,” Lord Roland said, a hint of genuine emotion flickering in his eyes. “You will make a perfectly obedient and proper wife. I can tell. Before coming out here I remembered the little wild cat you once were, always out riding on your horse or playing in the garden making mud pies. You’ve outgrown it all and I am glad. High society circles will embrace us as the perfect couple. None will know the uncivilized country girl you’d grown up as.”

The words struck a nerve, a painful reminder of the vibrant, uninhibited girl she’d once been. The realization that she was trapped in a gilded cage, her spirit slowly being suffocated by the constraints of her betrothal, ignited a surge of rebellion within her. She felt the familiar pull of her past self, the desire for freedom, for spontaneity, for the reckless abandon of her youth. The memory of Will, the boy who had once held her captive in his arms, suddenly felt like a cruel mockery.

As she stood there, lost in her thoughts, a shadow fell over her, disrupting her reverie. It was Nanny Annemarie, a stern, watchful presence who had served the Westwood family for decades. “Lady Westwood,” she snapped, her voice sharp and disapproving. “Such impropriety! Lord Roland, that was no way to treat a Lady!”

The incident in the stables had been a pivotal moment in their lives, a turning point that had ultimately led to their separation. Now, as she looked into Lord Roland’s face, she realized that the wounds of the past were still raw, still capable of causing unbearable pain. She felt a desperate need to escape, to break free from the suffocating confines of her forced marriage.

Bryn released her gaze from Lord Roland's face and turned to leave the garden, intending to seek refuge in the solitude of her chambers. As she walked through the grand halls of Westwood Hall, she felt a strange pull, a magnetic force drawing her toward the stables. The scent of hay, the distant snorts of horses, the memory of stolen kisses and whispered promises – all conspired to awaken a forgotten part of her soul.

The stables, once a sanctuary of passion and forbidden pleasures, now seemed like a distant dream, a fleeting glimpse into a life she could never reclaim. As she approached the stable doors, she noticed something amiss. The large bulge in Lord Roland's trousers, a subtle but unmistakable sign of his past indiscretions, caught her eye. It was a cruel reminder of the secret he had kept hidden for so long, a secret that now threatened to unravel everything she thought she knew about him. A wave of confusion washed over her, followed by a surge of anger. She realized that she couldn’t simply ignore the truth, that she had to confront Lord Roland, to demand an explanation for his deception.

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