Claiming His Human Wife Read online

  Claiming His Human Wife

  By

  Sue Lyndon

  ©2015 by Blushing Books® and Sue Lyndon

  All rights reserved.

  No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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  Lyndon, Sue

  Claiming His Human Wife

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-68259-193-2

  Cover Design by ABCD Graphics & Design

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books’ or the Author’s advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.

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  Table of Contents:

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  About Sue Lyndon

  Ebook Offer

  Blushing Books Newsletter

  About Blushing Books

  Chapter 1

  Rhiannon stood on the sunbathed hill amidst Zertrin’s wilderness with her arms stretched to the sky. Tiny white flowers budded through the sheath of solid green weeds and grass beneath her feet, where her dress and underthings pooled around her ankles. Today was a day for prayers of thanksgiving and Rhiannon would honor her family, being the only child in her father’s household.

  The birds had begun returning from the underlands and the great beasts were out of hibernation. All was well in the Land of Zertrin, and Rhiannon’s spirits brightened at the promise of warmer weather. Winter had been unusually harsh.

  “Thanks to Retta in Ettonelli. Thanks to Retta from the House of Wanswin in the Land of Zertrin,” Rhiannon called to the hills, for the hundredth time since she’d removed her dress. At the beginning of each new season, she stood atop this very hill and repeated the same thanks over and over again.

  A cool breeze sent a shiver over her skin despite the rays of sun beaming down upon her. She thought of the northern regions and suppressed a shudder. She was glad her ancestors had migrated from the frigid north where the Cold Top loomed over the snowcapped mountain range she spied in the distance.

  She stayed for an afternoon’s time, until the sun began to fragment from behind treetops of sister hills. When the prayer time ended, she fixed her dress in place, happy for the warmth of the thick layers of her skirts. Though the weather was growing warmer, it hadn’t grown warm enough yet to exchange her winter dress for a summer one. She dashed down the hill, her heart racing with anticipation.

  Tonight there would be a great celebration in the village. The springtime celebrations were always the most joyous, and she couldn’t wait to join with her family and friends in the occasion. She especially looked forward to the music. She imagined swaying to the tune of the soft wooden flutes while the stars shone down from above and the wine flowed freely. Perhaps a man would ask her dance. She blushed at the thought.

  Her mind still on the celebration, Rhiannon navigated through the trees and underbrush just as any skilled hunter, quickly and in silence. Deer flitted away. Woodland rodents scampered over twigs and mud. Birds zipped through the tall, thick trees. The solitude of the forest soothed her. She smiled, thinking tomorrow she might slip away after the noon meal for a walk amongst the trees.

  The village appeared in a clearing ahead. Decorative banners hung from the stone walls and torches blazed around the perimeter of the wall, creating an enchanting vision against the setting sun. The sound of drumming reached her through the breeze, and with the next breeze she heard the flutes starting up. She’d arrived in time for the opening festivities in the village square. Stepping into the clearing, she lifted her skirts and took off, her hair flying unbound and wild behind her.

  “Rhiannon,” a voice boomed from the bottom of the hill. “Rhiannon!”

  She paused and looked toward the sound of horses and men riding hard in her direction. For a moment, she panicked. Perhaps they would be clothed in violet—the color of those from the Land of Holon. Feared enemies. But no, she reminded herself, someone had spoken her name. She squinted until she saw these men wore red, suddenly bright in the shadows of the hills and setting sun. Breathing a sigh of relief, she tried to smooth her hair straight as she waited for them to reach her.

  Rhiannon gazed at the slowing riders, recognizing her father in lead. His face was a mask of worry and sorrow. Before he voiced his grounds for sadness, she already knew what had occurred during her absence. Tears burned in her eyes, but she swallowed hard and strove to keep her emotions hidden.

  “Rhiannon.” The
remaining six men halted a short distance away, clearly a show of privacy. “Rhiannon, your grandmother has died.”

  “She will thrive in Ettonelli, the blessed Land of After,” she responded, hoping to alleviate her father’s grief. Though she spoke calmly and managed a smile, her heart panged with sadness and she fought to keep her lower lip from quivering. She had hoped and prayed her grandmother would survive her most recent illness and go on to live for many more years. The land of Zertrin had lost a great healer.

  “No,” he said, “May she be damned to the Caves of Terr and never once invade the bodies of the living.” His voice was a snarl and he spat on the ground.

  “Father! You cannot mean that!” Tears brimmed more heavily in her eyes and confusion set in. How could he violate the memory of his own mother with such cruel words? Her gaze fell to the riders who’d accompanied her father outside the village. Why hadn’t he ridden out to find her alone?

  “Your grandmother has spoken truths on her deathbed that damn the future lines of women in the House of Wanswin.”

  Rhiannon frowned and took a step back. There were but a few terrible deeds that would lead one to the Caves of Terr.

  “What did grandmother confess?”

  “She was touched by a Crigon during her days as a healer at a northern Zertrin outpost. She was touched by a Crigon and she lived amongst us, tainted, for all the decades after her twentieth birthday.” Her father’s horse snorted and stomped, as if it shared the outrage of its rider.

  “A Crigon?” Rhiannon asked. Being touched by a Crigon was a touch of damnation. Those contaminated must live as outcasts in the hills and forests. Upon death, nothing could save those already damned by the Crigons from the Caves of Terr. Such was the curse leveled upon the Land of Zertrin after the great, bloody war against the Crigons their ancestors had suffered through hundreds of years ago.

  Before her father could answer, a coach led by four horses barreled up the hill. It was the black locking coach with bars on the window, the one meant to transport prisoners or slaves. Rhiannon suddenly feared for her own future. Your grandmother has spoken truths on her deathbed that damn the future lines of women in the House of Wanswin.

  “What’s this?” she asked, looking intently at her father. Surely he wouldn’t send her away. Not his own daughter.

  “I’m sorry, my love,” he said. “This is the only way to keep you safe. Others heard your grandmother’s confession. There are those who are calling for your immediate death.”

  Strong hands pulled Rhiannon toward the prison coach, the village’s most intimidating guards lifting her into the air. She resisted like a wild beast, screaming and kicking with the vigor of an untamed rolabear. But it was all for not.

  “Father!” Rhiannon screamed from behind the tiny square of bars, the only window to the outside world. “Father!”

  His head bobbed in the window, his horse shuffling with alarm. “You are to remain on the Cold Top for all of your days, and though I’m certain the chance will never present itself, know that you must never have a child. Our family’s cursed line of women ends with you on the Cold Top.” He disappeared from the window.

  Rhiannon screamed out, reached her fingers outside the little bars and began weeping as the prison coach peeled off and away from the village walls. She thrashed about the coach, looking for a weakness to exploit. But it was solid. There was no way out. Come three days’ time, she would be forever stranded in one of the forgotten cabins on the Cold Top. All her hopes and dreams for the future crashed to the ground.

  The next three days were a blur of strange landscapes accompanied by Rhiannon’s constant nursing of her father’s betrayal. Why didn’t he try to save her by taking her to another village? Perhaps they could have settled in a village further south and along the shores of the Heather Sea. Instead, the coach made haste toward the Cold Top, escorted by several armed riders. Forgotten bridges were crossed over and herds of beasts unknown were scattered about the rising plains. On the third day, Rhiannon awoke to the coach stopped along the edge of a great forest that was unlike anything she’d ever cast eyes upon. Trees with massively thick trunks loomed to the sky. She almost expected to see a long extinct giant walk out of the forest.

  She rose from the bearskin bed and banged a fist upon the door. Getryn opened it with obvious reluctance and motioned for her to exit. Breakfast was waiting by the fire, and Rhiannon navigated through the hovering guards.

  “Not going to try running away this morning?” asked Reten from beside the fire.

  Rhiannon shot him a hateful look, but remained silent. Reten had been the one to catch her during her last two escape attempts, and he goaded her at every opportunity. Most of the men treated her in the same harsh manner, even Getryn, whom she had once thought was sweet on her. The guards were missing the spring festivities and the annual mass nuptial ceremony because of this trip to the Cold Top, and she supposed this was their reason for treating her so poorly. She recalled what her father had said about some of the villagers wanting her dead, and she supposed she was lucky none of the guards had tried to kill her, especially since her father wasn’t here to stop them. He hadn’t ridden along to escort her to the Cold Top.

  “Eat quickly,” Getryn said. “We’ll reach the Floating Fields by morning’s end.”

  “Getryn,” said Rhiannon. “Could I have a minute?” She motioned away from the guards, feebly attempting to draw him from from the gathering. She had to attempt escape one last time. The thought of living out the rest of her days on the Cold Top terrified her. If she drew Getryn away from the rest of the guards, perhaps she might succeed in escaping. Reten couldn’t catch her if she was hidden well enough among the trees.

  Before Getryn could answer, Reten snorted and rose to his booted feet. “I guess she’s not hungry this morning,” he said.

  Rhiannon’s face burned as she was locked inside the coach a final time. There would be no more opportunities for escape. A key would be passed through the bars just before the coach was pushed into the Floating Fields, and Rhiannon knew what everyone else did about these fields—they only floated up to the Cold Top. Never down to the lands of men. Her existence would be a lonely one.

  As the morning came to a close, the trees gave way to dirt and rock. The mist grew thicker, forming a suffocating, white blanket around the prison coach. Rhiannon pleaded to be left in the misty forest, thinking it might be better to live amongst the groups of outcasts. Reten rattled his sword against the bars to quiet her begging.

  The coach finally stopped and Rhiannon heard the horses being unhitched. Getryn’s face appeared between the bars, a blurred vision behind the hot tears pooling in her eyes.

  “Getryn, please. Don’t do this to me. Whatever my grandmother did, I shouldn’t be punished for her mistakes. I know I’m not welcome back in the village, but I could live somewhere else. Anywhere else but the Cold Top, please.”

  Getryn threw the key inside. Rhiannon’s heart broke as it clattered to the floor. “I’m sorry, Rhiannon. Your father insists this is the only way to keep you safe.”

  “Safe from the villagers? But they wouldn’t have to know you let me go.”

  Getryn looked from side to side and moved closer. “Safe from the roaming Crigon who would have vengeance against your family. That is all I know.” Then his face vanished, replaced by the haunting mist.

  “Push!” a loud voice called. Rhiannon felt the coach moving, knowing it would tip over the rocky cliff and ride upon the Floating Fields toward the Cold Top which was cut off from all land. “Push!” the voice boomed again.

  Rhiannon hit the floor and fumbled for the key. Perhaps she could open the door and run through the mist before she was traveling in the air. But in the next moment, the mist was moving faster and the rough pushes had ceased. The prison coach had been edged off the cliff and she was riding the current of the Floating Fields, riding the path to exile. Rhiannon threw the key against the wall and pulled at her long black hair in exasperatio
n.

  She cursed her father for not being completely honest with her, and she wondered about the roaming Crigon. What had her grandmother done? She obviously hadn’t just been touched by a Crigon, not if one was searching for Rhiannon to seek vengeance against her family.

  Rhiannon wiped at her tears and crawled across the wooden floor to retrieve the key, then sank against the door to wait for the prison coach to land upon the Cold Top.

  *

  Deep mounds of snow nearly concealed the cabin, but it was definitely there. The setting sun shone orange against the windows, serving as a beacon for Rhiannon. She fought the biting wind and traipsed inside with numb feet, thinking perhaps exile on the Cold Top was a death sentence after all.

  She strained to shut the door and focused on the dim interior of the small, one room cabin. Though it wasn’t much warmer than outside, at least the wind was no longer sanding her face away. She fumbled along the wall toward a rustic table with candles and tap stones. She lit the tallest candle first, followed by all the rest. Dust and cobwebs testified that she was alone, though someone had undoubtedly once called this place home, likely before the Cold Top had been raised up and away from any joining lands by the goddess Retta in her anger over the Crigon’s victory against the humans at the Battle of Cliffton.

  After spreading the candles around the cabin, Rhiannon lit the fireplace. Neatly stacked wood rested on a platform, as if it had been waiting to burn for a century or longer, and soon the fire grew and filled the cabin with warmth. She fell asleep beside the fire upon a bearskin bed, still cursing her father for not explaining the circumstances of her exile in greater detail. She hoped her grandmother wasn’t residing in the Caves of Terr and prayed this was all a terrible mistake.

  Terrifying dreams of evil roaming spirits kept jolting her awake, and finally she decided to sit up and abandon her efforts to sleep.

  She added more wood to the dwindling fire and wrapped a blanket around her arms. “Grandmother,” she said to the now rising flames. “It’s me. Rhiannion.” She paused and took a deep breath. “Oh Grandmother, what in the name of Retta did you do?”