Little Red, Riding Wood Ch. 02

He was so close. Celia was brave. She could survive a few days without him, maybe even a few nights alone in the house. She was safe alone in the village, he was sure. And the sooner he got her away from here, the better.

He was her father. He'd do whatever it took to keep her safe, and to find happiness and love for her. He wanted to make for her the happiest, brightest future that any father ever could for his beloved daughter.

* * *

It felt oddly lonely in the house, with Father gone. He was very late, more late than he'd ever been, which made Celia nervous and frightened. She chewed her lip in anxiety, trying to tell herself that no evil had befallen him. He was a strong man. He could take care of himself, even against the likes of Royden and Ruffe.

Everything was too dark and too quiet. Every little noise startled her, odd little sounds that she'd never even noticed when he was here. She tried, as hard as it was, not to vividly relive her own frightening encounter with the evil brothers.

She sat alone in the outer room, with only one lamp lit, just enough to read by. After all, there was no reason to light up the place as if it were the Mid Winter Feast. She was more than happy with what little light there was. And while more light might have made her feel more safe, it would also have made the room feel larger, and more empty. For now, she was happy to shrink it down to herself, her chair, her book and the lamp.

She was less than happy, however, to be alone, without her father. He had almost never been out this late at grandmother's house. Even for those who understand the dangers and are wary, the Wolf Wood was not a safe place to trek through in the dark. Celia worried for his safety.

Something fell to the floor in her room. Celia froze, ears perked, listening for any further disturbance.

There was none, of course. Damned rats, no doubt. It was almost as if they'd listened to her thoughts, and knew that any foolish noise at just that moment would startle her half out of her wits. Celia went back to her book, and was soon fast asleep.

* * *

When she awoke in the morning she was asleep in her bed, atop the blankets. Her father must have moved her there, and after the long week she'd had, dodging suitors, rejecting lovers, teaching school, handing out bread, and a hundred other tedious chores, not to mention a very prolific week of both reading and writing, it was no surprise that she'd slept through is arrival, and couldn't remember being assisted into bed.

Her only regret was that he hadn't removed her clothing. She would have felt quite pleased with the thought of her father, perhaps in as gentlemanly a way as he could, removing each layer of clothing to expose the feminine beauty that his daughter kept hidden beneath each fold.

She listened a moment, before realizing that her father had already left for the day. She wondered how late she had slept.

It hardly mattered. It was raining today, which meant that many of the men might not work, and would instead be sitting at the pub, enjoying too much ale too early in the morning. The baker might not even bother with bread, and father could teach his classes alone.

It was a wonderful day to stay in bed, take out her journal, and to read and to write some more. Celia even considered the wickedly wonderful idea of getting up just to get undressed, and to put on her nightclothes, before crawling into bed for the day to read and write.

It was a gloriously indulgent idea, and one that she would get to, as soon as she first recorded the fact that she had already done so in her journal.

She removed the four well placed books from the bookshelf behind her bed, to expose the cubby in which she kept the journal hidden.

Her mouth fell open in horror when she realized it wasn't there. She tried to remember when she had last used it. She was certain that she had put it away. She always put it away. Always. It was far too important to leave where anyone could find it, even her father. Especially her father!

She tore her room apart in a panic. She tore the outer room apart, and next her father's own bedroom.

It was nowhere to be found.

Celia collapsed into her father's chair, crestfallen and anxious beyond any other fears she had ever had. Did her father have it? Had he read it? Did he now know her darkest, innermost thoughts? A burning blush rose in her cheeks at the mere thought of it. If he knew, she could never face him again, ever. She'd have to marry someone, Gautier even, or run away, or just sit here and whither and die.

This was horrible. This was the most horrible thing that could have befallen her.

Could, should, would.

It was one of those moments. She tried to think. Perhaps, even though she could write the journal, she shouldn't have. If she'd never let her imagination run wild, or better yet never recorded those wild fantasies, then she wouldn't be in this predicament now.

But thinking about that was pointless. It was done. Could, should, would. She could go find her father, and she should. Perhaps he hadn't had time to read it yet. He had to teach his classes. It probably sat there, on his desk or in a drawer, while he awaited a break to peruse it.

Perhaps all was not lost. She could go confront him to get it back. She certainly could, and should, and would.

In a moment, she had her red cloak on her shoulders, with the hood pulled tight to protect her from the rain. She raced down the muddy, water logged lane as quickly as she could, oblivious to the fact that she still wore yesterday's dress, or that her feet were getting soaked.

She had only one thought, to keep Father from discovering her most wicked, sinful, and secret desires. And one repeatedly expressed desire in particular.

* * *

Celia felt the embarrassing sting of tears in her eyes as she ran. Her heart raced. This was more horrible than any fate Royden or Ruffe could lead her to. Her hood had fallen back in her haste, so her hair was matted with rain, yet she couldn't be bothered to pull it back up.

Her father couldn't read it! He can't have read it yet. He'd have it, and she'd pout and scold him, he'd return it, and she'd hide it more carefully from now on.

It had to turn out that way. She couldn't bear the thoughts of all of the other possibilities, even as they played out against her will in her mind.

He'd think her a slut, and a whore, and when he got to the parts that included himself, he and her together, he'd die. He'd die of shame and anger. They're lives would never be the same. What if he couldn't even bear to look at her, then. What if he sent her away?

She tried to recount the list of fanciful encounters that she'd written in her head. There was Masson, and Leroux and Fontayne and Gerrard, and fat Hugues, and wrinkled old Chappel, and poor crippled Quain — she rather liked the fantasies she'd created around their ugliness — and of course Royden and Ruffe, and more still.

What if he forced her to marry one of these miserable, smelly, homely, stupid oafs, just to get her out of his house?

It hit her then. She had described having Hugues, Chappel and Quain pay her! She'd whored herself to them. Not only that, she had reveled in it, screaming the most deliciously sinful, vile things as she imagined them taking her. She'd ordered them to take her like the whore she truly was at heart. What would Father think when he read such imaginings from his own daughter's twisted mind?

And then there were the many, many episodes with Papa himself. Goodness, what would he think of her? She'd never be able to live with the shame. Or live with him! Goodness, he'd throw her out, certainly. Send her to live with widow Manette, probably. Certainly. And then to marry one of the worthless, horrid oafs.

She had to get it back.

She tried to fight down the tears, even as they welled in her eyes. Her heart pounded, from the exertion of running further and faster than she ever thought she could, and more from the fear that her live stood on the edge of complete and utter ruin. Her throat swelled, so she felt she couldn't swallow or breathe, even as she struggled to continue on.

She arrived, panting, at the school house. Without thinking she burst through the door. The school children all turned as one in surprise at her entrance before she realized how foolish this would look. Her father stared at her, unsmiling from her desk.

Had he read it already? Did he know?

She looked around at the sea of faces staring innocently back at her.

"May I help you, Celia?"

After a moment's pause, it finally struck him that something was terribly wrong. Her panic spread visibly to him, and he quickly stood, clumsily knocking his chair to the ground with a loud clatter.

"Are they back?"

Celia stared at him, wide eyed, trying half-heartedly to make sense of the words, even as her real attention was on his desk, looking for the journal. It wasn't there!

The children began to chatter like a flock of crows. Her father came towards her, even as she ran to him, and past him. Despite all of the embarrassment of the situation, and the difficulty she'd have in explaining her behavior, her panic grew and controlled her every action. She felt now as if she weren't even here, or rather, that she were watching events from behind her eyes, but having no more control than a marionette in what she said and did next.

"What are you looking for? What's this all about?"

She moved closely to him, speaking as softly as she could, but fearing that her plainly trembling voice was much too loud.

"Do you have it?"

"Have what?"

"It. It. My journal. You took it."

"I did no such there, Dear."

She looked at him, trying to tell if he was lying. Had he already read it? No, he'd be far more angry if he had. Had he simply not reached the most embarrassing parts? Did he think he could keep it, and get to them later?

"It's gone. I put it away, and it's gone. Who else could have it?"

"You know I'd never take it, Celia. You're an adult now, a grown woman. You're entitled to your privacy, all the more so because we are forced together in that small home by circumstance. I respect your privacy. I'd never betray that trust. Ever."

She looked at him, and of course he was right. She could feel it. She trusted him more than anyone or anything. Perhaps he was the only person on earth that she truly, deeply, totally trusted. She scolded herself now, feeling a new embarrassment, at having doubted him.

That feeling was quickly erased by a new fear, which in its turn easily grew into a new level of panic. If he didn't have it, then who did? That thought was almost more horrible than her original, perhaps even worse.

She looked wide eyed to her father for help.

"Who could have it?"

"I'm sure you've just misplaced it. Are you sure that you put it away?"

Celia thought back. She was sure she had. Almost. She took it out and put it back so often, to read or to add to it, it was hard to keep track. She had several hiding places, too, just in case Father did decide to peek.

And she'd been so tired that evening, and so distressed, with fears of Royden and Ruffe, and fears of being alone, and worries about Father. Looking back, now, the evening and the night were a blur. She hadn't even remembered being put to bed.

Had she put it away? Where else could it be? She'd scoured the house.

"Perhaps you dropped it somewhere, without even knowing, in the forest."

Her eyes went wide. That had to be it, and that thought terrified her almost as much as the others, but gave her hope. If someone found it, her life would be ruined. But maybe no one had, as of yet. She tried to remember where she'd been yesterday. She'd retrace her steps, eyes pealed for the precious little book. If she hurried, she'd find it. She'd recover it, and squirrel it away, maybe even tear those pages out of it, lest this ever happen again.

She'd never again be so careless. Never.

"Thank you, Papa. I love you," she said, as she ran from the school house.

As she burst out into the rain, she pulled her hood up, and abruptly slowed her pace to an urgent walk. Few people were about, but some took notice. Gautier hovered in the awning of the pub, along with a few others, and scowled at her in a frightening way. He was still upset that she refused him, but his anger was more palpable now than ever. He watched her until she was almost out of site, then ducked into the rain himself, not to follow her, but heading instead back to his own small, cramped hovel.

* * *

Gautier read on, as well as he could, fuming and blazing with righteous fury, indignant at every word he read. This was his third attempt at reading it, and he figured out more and more of the words with each repetition.

At first, he'd simply wanted to know what it was that she was always writing in. He'd thought it might give him some hint as to how to sway her to accept his advances. Peering into her room, to watch her put the journal away, as well as to enjoy the sight of her dressing and undressing, had been more than easy. She was so often far too unaware of the world around her, living in her own little world of fantasies and thoughts in that active little girl's mind of hers.

Stealing it had been a challenge, particularly fitting through that damned, tight window in the dark. But with Sinclaire so conveniently late in returning, the opportunity had presented itself, and Gautier, as always, had seized it.

He read on.

The slut. The filthy, wanton harlot. With Masson? And Royden and Ruffe both? Almost all of the others? She'd refused him, and yet eagerly spread her legs for seemingly every other man in the village.

She even took that fat slob Hugues between her legs, as well as old Chappell and hairy, lame Quain. But she charged them! Like a common whore, they paid her for her favors, and then, with compensation in hand, she wrote of how she'd loved the way they took her. She wrote with pride of how she'd begged them to treat her like the dirty whore she was, even as she begged them for more.

Gautier seethed as he read.

Almost everyone wanted to wed Little Red because they all thought that she was the only virgin left in the village, or at least the only one pretty enough to make that a good thing. Why had not one of them bragged about their conquest? They all, to a man, had kept their liaisons secret.

She had laid with virtually all of them. Every piece of solid wood in town had filled her knothole. He fumed in unspeakable rage, and disgust. She'd spread her legs and taken almost every other man in the village except Gautier.

Every other man, and that included her own father! Her own father had laid her, and quite frequently it seemed. No wonder the old coot wouldn't give her hand to anyone else. The sick bastard was keeping his own young, moist, daughter's flesh to himself.

More than that, she wrote about him as if he were the most masterful lover any woman had ever had. Her writing glowed as she spoke of him, and how he made her feel. She wrote in such detail about his kisses, his touches, and even the feel of her own father's cock inside of her body. His own daughter's body!

Gautier fumed. This insult could never stand. Their evil ways could never stand. Now, more than ever, he knew he would take Celia, one way or the other. Her father would have to surrender her, with this proof in his hands. He would have to give his daughter to Gautier, or he would rot in prison, if the villagers even allowed him to live after his foul deeds. He'd rot, and Celia would be cast out as a whore.

He'd have to give her his hand, and then Gautier would have it all. He'd have Celia, and she'd have no right to stop him from laying with any woman he wished. He could have it all, and more. And if she refused, or if she ever caught him with another man, he always had the book. Her dear, darling, lover of a father would be ruined, if ever she angered him.

Gautier grinned at the book. He rather enjoyed reading it, now. The writing was good. The acts and descriptions, vile as they were beyond exciting, even if there were too many words that he didn't comprehend. He got the gist of it.

This book was the greatest treasure he'd ever had. He'd never seen an ounce of value in books, outside of the warmth they might give in a good fire. But this book, this book was special. This book was a key to a garden of untold fruits and pleasures for Gautier.

She wasn't any longer the virginal treasure that he'd wanted, but he would still have her. He'd still tell the others that of all of them, he had been her first. He'd tell them she went to each of them in turn, looking for his equal, only to be continually disappointed.

He'd have her, even if he no longer wanted her, if only because he had wanted her, and she was owed to him. It was his right, and he'd take what he could from her now, in so very many ways, in compensation for depriving him of what was rightly his.

Gautier grinned evilly at the book. He had Celia now; he knew it.

* * *