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  He wanted to be happy, and, even though he knew this wasn't necessarily what she wanted, he did want her to be happy, too.

  So, he intended to continue their conversation, although they never seemed to be alone so that he could do it before everyone had retired to their rooms. Long about midnight, after she'd excused herself about ten or so, saying she was tired, he donned a robe and pajama bottoms that he didn't usually wear and, checking to see that there was no one else in the hotel hallway, he snuck down to her room and rapped loudly on the door.

  "Rissa, it's Doyle. Let me in."

  She'd been dead asleep, but now someone was rapping rudely at her door. She got up, turned on the small lamp on the nightstand, and went to the door.

  "Doyle, is that you?" she asked inanely.

  Doyle had to grab hold of his temper, or he would end up saying something he regretted. "Yes, let me in."

  Rissa balked at that idea. "But I thought you said we weren't going to—"

  "Yes, but I need to talk to you. Let me in."

  "Is that a wise idea, though—"

  Doyle sighed exasperatedly. "Would you prefer that I wait, outside your door, for someone—say, Winnie or Isaac, who are only a few doors down—to come along and find me asking to come into your room?"

  She opened the door immediately and stepped aside.

  "I'm sorry, I wasn't think—"

  He closed the door behind him, then turned and got a delicious eyeful of at her in the lamplight, in one of the pretty new nightgowns he had bought her today, looking like a particularly exquisite morsel as she stood there all soft and warm from sleep, and he was completely unable to stop himself from taking her into his arms and kissing the breath out of her, until he finally realized that, if he continued this way, he was going to take her where she stood.

  So, in the interest of trying not to defile her yet again—before they were married and he had every right to—he brought the kiss to an obviously very reluctant end and forced himself to take a few steps back from her.

  "You, Miss Clarissa, are entirely too enticing for me to resist, obviously," he teased, and she smiled coyly. "I'm sorry to wake you, but weren't able to finish the conversation we started at Madame Bouvier's this afternoon."

  Doyle hated the cloud that descended over her at his words, biting her lip hesitantly and staring at her feet. This was exactly how he didn't want her to feel.

  Before he spoke again, he reached out and raised her chin with his finger so that he had her eyes on him. "I wanted to tell you that if I ever say anything imbecilic like that again—which we both know is bound to happen—then I want you to tell me, not suffer with it eating away at your insides and making you unhappy. I want to know about this kind of thing, because—as much as I know you might think differently—I can, just occasionally, very, very rarely, be wrong."

  She snored derisively, then laughed, and he did with her.

  "Or even just oblivious. Tell me, baby girl, so I can address it and apologize for it, and grovel for forgiveness at your feet—"

  "When does that start?" she teased pertly, making him smile.

  "And so I can remember and learn from it for the future. We both will have to learn and grow in this relationship, if we mean to make a go of it." He took a step towards her, tempting his own control. "And I do intend to make a go of it. May I count on you to join me in that? Making our marriage—however unusual its start—a success?"

  She gave him such a big, gorgeous smile that he grabbed for her comically, but she shrieked softly and danced away from him, her hand out in front of her to ward him off.

  He turned, slightly crouched like a jungle cat, actively stalking her as he drove her—giggling the entire time at his antics—towards her bed. When she'd gotten onto it, though, he stopped and just looked at her.

  "You take my breath away, you know. Every time I look at you—and I'm always looking at you. Even when you first arrived, and I was all grumpy—"

  "You were a bear!" she accused, curling her legs up under her.

  "I was, partly because I've wanted you so badly from the beginning, and I didn't know what to do with that. I felt like I was being unfaithful to Laura in wanting you, so I lashed out. I'm sorry."

  "It's all right," Rissa said softly. "I understand."

  He inclined his head to her. "Thank you. You are more generous and benevolent than I deserve."

  "I know I am, considering you've been absolutely horrid and spanked me!"

  His eyes narrowed. "With very good reason, both times," he asserted. "And I will continue to punish you, most particularly any time I think that you've put yourself in danger." He had halted himself several feet away from her bed, not wanting to tempt fate, but he moved a bit closer and growled, "You're very beautiful with your round cheeks painted red by my hand, weeping softly—I can't wait to take you after I've spanked you." His face lit with an unholy light that made her have to stop herself from writhing just from the desirous way he was looking at her. "Perhaps, sometime soon, I'll do both."

  He let that threatening promise hanging in the air between them and turned to leave, pausing at the door to blow a kiss to her. "Good night, Miss Clarissa. Climb under the covers and sleep well. I'll be dreaming of you."

  Last thing he said, over his shoulder as he ducked out of her room to his own was, "Tomorrow, we're definitely buying you a robe."

  Chapter 8

  Although it was nice—if small—their wedding was nothing like what she'd imagined for herself as a little girl. There was no church involved, and the only music was from some of his cowboys, who played their guitars softly in the background as she walked—unaccompanied—down the makeshift "aisle" to him—which was really just a spot in the courtyard that had a few chairs set up in front of it. She didn't know anyone here, and there was no time for anyone to get there for it, so it was really just the four of them, Lucille, the minister, his foreman, and two or three other people from town who were more business acquaintances than anything else.

  He'd lost touch with the friends he'd had with Laura—they'd just faded away from him when she died—as he'd understood later was the usual way of things—and he was hardly the most social of people, anyway. He'd push himself when he had to be for the good of the ranch, but that was about it. Doyle preferred to be working most of the time, and when he wasn't working, he wanted to enjoy the simple fruits of his labors—his land, his house, and the family members who were in it.

  Still, she had a formal gown, because he wanted her to have what she wanted, and it was a beautiful, elegant concoction, perfect for an intimate wedding, simple and refined, of a fine summer fabric in a soft blue that reflected the color of her eyes. It had been embroidered all over with tiny flowers of a slightly darker shade of blue, all with small green stems and leaves, all of which only served to highlight her beautiful complexion and the gorgeous red hair that Winnie had artfully styled for her.

  Every single thing she was wearing was new as she stood at the end of the aisle and everyone rose, Doyle turning to face her as she made her way slowly to him. She carried a bouquet of white and red roses that he had brought in especially for her and this day, which she handed over to Winnie, who was, of course, her matron of honor, just as Isaac was his best man.

  When Doyle took her hand in his, he noticed with alarm how cold it was, and he kissed her fingers gently, then covered them with his, trying to warm them.

  The ceremony itself was very quick, as Doyle didn't hold with very much religious folderol, and, when it came down to it, neither did Rissa. When he was told he could kiss his bride, he gave her the most tender, romantic kiss she had ever experienced.

  Their wedding meal was a festival of only the best meats—prime rib and filet among them—all of them, of course, provided by the ranch. Lucille had outdone herself cooking for them, and she, too, was at the meal when they ate and were toasted as the happy couple. She'd even made a multi-layer wedding cake, as a surprise. When they cut it and he fed her a piece,
Doyle didn't deliberately try to plaster it all over her face. Instead, he took a swipe of the frosting on his finger and decorated the very tip of her nose with it, making Rissa laugh.

  It wasn't too late in the evening when the reception broke up and their visitors began to head home. They weren't taking a honeymoon as of yet because Doyle was too busy to leave the ranch, but everyone else left so they could have some time alone together. Even Isaac and Winnie generously left to visit some friends for a week or so.

  When they were alone, every nerve Rissa had kicked into high gear—she was practically trembling with it. She didn't really know what to do besides try to clean up the messes that had been left. But Doyle, who had just gone around to make sure all of the lamps and fires were out, took the plates and bowls she'd stacked high to make a run into the kitchen out of her hands, putting them down right where she was, on the coffee table in the living room. Then he took one of her now free hands, snagging a bottle of very good champagne before guiding her down the hallway to open the door of his bedroom wide. Stepping back, he bowed low before her, as if he was a bell hop or a concierge or something of the sort. "Welcome to your new bedroom."

  She hadn't really even seen his room—only in passing when she'd first gotten there and Winnie and Isaac were giving her the tour. Once inside it, what caught her immediate attention—after noticing that there were beautiful fresh roses on the far side of the bed, which she assumed was going to be hers—was the size of the bed. It was the biggest one she'd ever seen, but then, he was a big guy.

  Doyle noticed where her eyes had settled, and poked fun at himself. "I had it custom made—got sick of my feet always hanging off the end, and I take up a lot of room."

  Rissa wasn't sure that was something she wanted to think about, but then, she wasn't at all sure what it was that she should be thinking about—or doing—at a time like this. She'd been okay through all of the hustle and bustle of the wedding preparations, even though she'd really left a lot of it to Winnie's discretion, since she wasn't at all sure that all of that immediacy was really necessary.

  And she had, the same day they had gotten engaged, gone into his study, alone again—what did it really matter now, anyway? she thought—to ask him, feeling much more nervous than she thought she would at doing so—to suggest that they actually postpone the wedding.

  Once she'd closed the door behind her, Rissa had said that she had something she wanted to ask him, but she had remained not far from the door, not wanting to venture too far into the room that had been the scene of two very embarrassing incidents with him. But he had sat up from having put his feet up on his desk and leaning very far back in his chair—a position that, frankly, she had been surprised to find him in—to motion at her to come closer.

  Rissa had reluctantly taken two or three steps towards him, but he was continuing to crook his fingers at her. She got as far as the corner of his desk and stopped, whispering shyly, "But I don't want to come closer, Doyle, please," immediately wishing she hadn't added the "please". She didn't want to beg him, but she could see that broad smile spread across his face, and knew that he liked that she had.

  "Rissa, come here." He held out his hand right in front of him. She'd practically be standing between his two widely spread legs if she did as he was asking. And she knew he wasn't really asking. "Do you need a spanking?"

  Her answer was immediate, "No, no spanking." She shook her head vigorously back and forth, heartily wishing she hadn't come in here.

  "The only way you'll ever avoid a spanking, pretty girl, is by obeying me," he said quietly, his eyes never leaving her while he watched her fidget nervously back and forth on feet he couldn't see for the hem of her beautiful new dress.

  She knew he wouldn't change his mind, though, and before she ended up leaving with a burning behind, Rissa took a few reluctant steps towards him, unable to stop herself from pleading with him occasionally the entire way, almost under her breath, in a manner she hated but felt compelled to do for some reason. "No, Doyle, please."

  Her little chant didn't stop until she was where she knew he wanted her to be, with her small hand in his, and, as his fingers closed firmly around hers, she knew she was lost.

  Doyle sat forward, putting his hands on her bottom through the dress, his voice kind but firm. "The next time, Rissa, you will obey me immediately. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, Doyle," she whispered, looking down.

  "Good girl for coming to me. That's exactly what I want you to do, but I want you to look at me when we're talking, sweetheart. I'm going to be your husband, and I will be the head of our household, but I don't want you to feel unhappy or resentful or stifled in any way about that. I want you to know that whatever decisions I make will come from a place of caring and wanting you to be happy, do you understand? Even if I might not do as you would like, it's only because I feel I know best for you." He smiled up at her, taking her hands in his. "Tell me you understand, honey."

  Rissa nodded her head, keeping her eyes on his. "Yes, Doyle. I understand."

  His smile grew even broader. "Excellent. Now, what can I do for you?"

  Rissa thought it was a bit unusual that he expected her be submissive to him, and yet he turned around and asked her what he could do for her. And, if she was truthful with herself, which she always tried to be, she liked feeling submissive to him, although she didn't necessarily want to like it. It made the area he was always touching on her tingle and ache—in very much the same manner as his fingers made her feel, as if that area was throbbing and swelling, and finally, when he allowed it, exploding, bursting with wondrously raw, uncontrollable pleasure.

  She recognized that what she was feeling, in submitting herself to him, was already the beginnings of those same feelings.

  "Well, I was thinking that, since we're engaged and all, that there's really no hurry to get married. We could take our time and pick a date a couple of months from now. If—"

  Doyle held up his hand to stop her. "No, my darling, I'm sorry. I want us to be married Saturday—no later than that." He watched as she sighed heavily, looking deflated and defeated. "Is there something else I can do for you?" he asked pleasantly, honestly hoping that there was, so that he could bring a smile to her sad little face.

  And Rissa had known that was the end of that subject.

  She might have been poor when she was back East, but she had control of her life, had largely made her own decisions—not that many of them had turned out very well, she admitted. But now, as his wife—and even as his fiancée for these next few days—she knew that she was going to have to come to grips with the fact that he was going to be making many decisions—important decisions—for her, and that he would expect her to obey him and conform to them or she was likely to be punished.

  And, what she was rapidly finding that was much worse than that, as far as she was concerned, was that she was beginning to like being taken care of like this. Confused and strangely dissatisfied, Rissa turned to leave.

  "Stop, sweetheart."

  Doyle motioned for her to come back, and she did. Only he didn't stop at having her stand in front of him, but gathered her onto his lap and held her very tightly, kissing her occasionally, but almost petting her, mostly, murmuring soothing nothings against the top of her head and rubbing her back.

  Then he set her back down in front of him, saying, "Stay still, please."

  Then he moved some things off the part of his desk that was closest to her, and that she was actually facing. When he was done, he said, "Bend over my desk, please, Rissa."

  "But why?"

  Doyle didn't move, didn't say anything. He simply looked up at her expectantly.

  And Rissa knew that she had probably better bend herself over his desk, which she did.

  For long moments, Doyle did nothing, leaving her there in front of him as he watched her. She even looked over at him, but he still just sat there.

  Eventually, he sat up and brought her skirts over her back, carefully mak
ing sure that they didn't cover her head, so that she could still see him and he could still see her, leaving her wearing just her stockings, bloomers, and shoes. The bloomers he then sent to the floor, leaving the stockings in place, then he left her there again for a much longer time, although she had no idea how long.

  When he stood, he towered over her vulnerable body, his hand finding its way to her bottom and giving her ten hard whacks. "When I tell you to do something, Rissa, what do I expect you to do?"

  She hadn't sobbed at the spanking—although she'd wanted to very badly—but his question made her weep uncontrollably as she answered in a subdued tone, "Obey you."

  "Exactly. So you know why I have to spank you now, don't you?"

  More, and louder weeping, not that she expected that was going to stop him.

  "Yes, Doyle."

  She had expected that her answer would indicate the beginning of the punishment, but it didn't.

  Instead, he gave her another quiet order. "Spread your legs as far apart as you can."

  It went against everything she knew, everything she'd been taught to do all her life to display herself like that, to leave herself open at all, much less in front of a man, and he watched her struggle with what she had known, as compared to what she was learning about how her life was now going to be lived with him, and, when he was just about to encourage her quite forcefully and painfully, her feet began to separate from one another.

  There were no skirts hindering her in the least, and when she stopped, she was very exposed and he was happy with her compliance, patting the small of her back gently, then letting his hand follow the curve of her folds and come to rest between those well spread legs.

  He cupped her then firmly. "I expect you to stay completely still, Rissa, or the spanking you've already earned will go much worse for you."