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  MERRIE’S HERO

  THE STRASBURG CHRONICLES, BOOK TWO

  PIPPA GREATHOUSE

  BLUSHING BOOKS

  Contents

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  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  About the Author

  EBook Offer

  Blushing Books Newsletter

  Blushing Books

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  Greathouse, Pippa

  Merrie's Hero

  (The Strasburg Chronicles – Book Two)

  Cover Design by ABCD Graphics

  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.

  Created with Vellum

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  PROLOGUE

  STRASBURG, VIRGINIA, SPRING OF 1843

  T hirteen-year-old Merriweather Thatcher, with her long chestnut ringlets tied in ribbons, gasped as her puppy broke free from her grasp. Strasburg was busy; wagons and carriages, not to mention foot-traffic, were heavy through the middle of town, and Papa had expressly told her not to take her puppy to town. Her vivid sky-blue eyes became huge as she started after him.

  "Bailey! Come back!"

  But Bailey had seen a cat on the wooden walkway across the street, and he was not the slightest bit interested in coming back.

  Screaming, Merrie ran after him. She did not notice the large carriage coming toward her; all she saw was Bailey in the middle of the street, with the Becker's wagon bearing down on him.

  "Bailey!" Lifting her skirts high, she sprinted toward the middle of the street.

  Mr. Becker had seen her. He was trying desperately to stop the horses to keep them from trampling her, but in a moment, she would be right there, under their hooves.

  An arm reached out, grabbing her and carrying her back to the walk.

  "No!" she cried out. "Bailey! He will be killed—"

  A hard swat landed on her bottom. A deep voice shouted down at her, "Do not dare move, young lady!"

  It happened within seconds. She watched, helplessly, as he put her down firmly and ran under the wheels of the Becker wagon. Horses reared, shouts filled the air, a carriage ground to a stop, and everyone raced to the middle of the street to see if he had been killed.

  But a moment later, he emerged from under the wagon, with a wiggling Bailey in his arms.

  The crowd cheered and returned to their destinations; Mr. Becker, in the wagon, put a hand to his chest, thankful no one was hurt. The carriage moved on.

  "Bailey," Merrie breathed, as the wiggling bundle was placed back into her arms. She looked up thankfully and smiled. "Oh, sir! You are my hero—"

  Her voice caught in her throat. The face of the man who stared down at her was anything but happy. He was scowling down at her with an unrelenting and forbidding expression. "Take that dog home." He growled, his brown eyes flashing. "And I swear, Merriweather Lynne Thatcher, if ever I catch you out here with him, I will spank you so hard you will never sit down again."

  Merrie's eyes were downcast now and filling with tears. But as she raised them sadly to his, they spilled down her face silently.

  Francis Adams, the man she had adored for as long as she could remember, had actually struck her bottom, had shouted at her and, worst of all, had threatened her!

  A moment later, she turned, running as fast as her legs would go, toward home. Merrie did not stop running until she had arrived upstairs in her room.

  Heartbroken, her pent-up tears erupted now in a flood, and she threw herself down on her bed, sobbing.

  CHAPTER 1

  SIX YEARS LATER, SEPTEMBER 1849

  M erriweather leaned out the window to see the early autumn color on the hillside, despite the orders from the driver to stay inside. She looked eagerly out to see the mansion toward the right, with fountains and stonework, engraved with the inscription that said, 'The Adams House,' not far from town. It had always fascinated her, and no less so now. It had not changed at all in the years she had been away. The rose garden was still in bloom, in front of the marble steps.

  Francis was the heir and owner
now. Her mother had written her shortly after she had gone east to school that the elder Mr. Adams had passed away. He had left everything he owned to his son and only heir, Francis. And what he had owned was substantial.

  Merrie scowled. The last time she had seen Francis was the day he had rescued Bailey, her puppy, from under the hooves of Mr. Becker's horses and wagon. She would never forget that day, and certainly would never forget the swat and the scolding he gave her upon the return of her puppy.

  She hoped never to see Francis Adams again, ever.

  Her cheeks reddened at the very thought of it. She had left home in the fall of 1843, a gangly thirteen-year–old, with eyes and a mouth too large for her face, and returned a young lady who was quite beautiful. Her deep auburn hair was still quite long, almost reaching her waist; but she had not, in spite of being gone six years, grown much taller. Her eyes, no less blue than they had ever been, were twinkling with eager excitement at returning home. Her parents had sent her regular letters, along with her close friend, Carlotta, who was soon to be married and moved away from Strasburg. But the letters had been informative; in some ways she had felt as if she had never left home.

  Once again, the driver shouted at her to get back inside. She moved inward, slightly, but did not stop looking out the window, in an attempt to see if her parents were waiting for her at the station. If they were not, she would be dreadfully disappointed.

  SHE COULD SEE HIM NOW, her tall and sweet papa, waiting in front of the station.

  "Papa!" she called, waving out the window, and her father looked up at the sound of her voice, his eyes alight.

  "Merriebelle!"

  She grinned at his use of her childhood name. She did not wait until the driver descended to open the coach door. Throwing it open, she jumped to the ground, running into her father's arms.

  "How is my little Merriebelle?" he asked, lifting her off the ground.

  "Oh, Papa, I am so glad to be home!" She giggled, the tinkling of her musical voice drifting. "Is Mother here?"

  "No, Merrie. I came to pick you up. Your mother is having tea with Mrs. Greene this morning. You will remember her; Mr. Greene owns the General Store."

  Merrie's eyes danced. "All right! I shall be glad to see her! How is Bailey?"

  Mr. Thatcher waited for her trunks and put them into the wagon he had left waiting not far away. He turned, then, his face serious. His hands were on her shoulders, and Merrie searched his face.

  "What is it, Papa? Is Bailey all right?"

  "Bailey is fine, Merrie. I do have some bad news for you, however. Here, my sweet girl. Get in."

  Merrie's eyes grew worried.

  "I-if Mother is having tea…and you are here…and Bailey is all right…then…" She paused. "Papa, what is it?"

  "It is the house, Merriebelle. It has burned. We did not think a letter would reach you before you left school. Your mother and I are staying with Aunt Syl and Uncle Herman at the present, until a new one is built."

  "Ooh…Papa. I am so sorry! Do…" She bit her lip. "Aunt Sylvia and Uncle Herman have room for me?"

  "I shall not lie to you, Merriebelle. It is tight. But Aunt Syl insists that you are welcome. And it is only temporary, until the house is rebuilt. Drew Carson and his men will start on it next week. She did not have room for Bailey, however—"

  Merrie gasped. "Please, Papa—you did not give him away—"

  "No. He is staying with Carlotta Abbott—who is very anxious to see you. Bailey is an older dog now, Merriweather. And too lazy even to chase their barn cats. But he seems quite happy there." He leaned over and hugged her. "Carlotta wishes you to visit her this afternoon, if you can."

  "I would love to see her, Papa. But—later? After I see all of you?"

  "Agreed."

  Her father had pulled up in front of the tiny house belonging to Aunt Sylvia and Uncle Herman, and Merrie immediately jumped down, ignoring the 'tsk' of her father. Uncle Herman descended the front steps, enveloping her in a bear hug. And tiny Aunt Syl, trailing behind him, offered Merrie her cheek.

  "Do come in, child," she said, smiling. "I am sure you need rest. We have put a cot in the library for you, so you may have some privacy. And lunch will be served shortly."

  "Yes, ma'am. That will be fine." She obediently followed.

  Her trunks were in the library by the time she had reached it. There was enough room to squeeze by them toward the window. The cot would have to be folded for use during the daytime, she realized. A pang of homesickness hit as she realized that her bedroom and all of her furnishings were gone for good. But there was no help for it now. And her family was safe; that was the most important thing.

  MARILYN THATCHER APPEARED at the door and looked her daughter over carefully.

  "Ooh, my little darling! You are even more beautiful than when you left. How could you have changed so? Come up and see where your father and I are staying."

  Merrie followed meekly upstairs, as her mother's words tumbled over each other, trying to explain what had happened. Bailey, it seemed, had knocked over a lantern late in the evening, which caught the curtains. One thing had led to another and before they could get help to save the house, it was gone.

  "But you and Papa got out—and that is what's important." Merrie's eyes were wide.

  "But I must tell you, my darling, Carlotta wishes you to stay with her until her wedding, and you would be wise to accept. You will not be happy in the library, I know it. Syl is sweet, but it is just too small for you; there is no place to even unpack your trunks. Now. Tell me how you have been."

  Merrie giggled. She settled on the bed, and when her father came up to get her, he found her sitting on the bed, facing her mother, with her legs curled up under her, giggling and telling stories about school.

  "My girls," he said, leaning his head in. "Aunt Syl has lunch for us downstairs. Hurry!"

  BY THREE O'CLOCK, Carlotta's groom, along with Mrs. Abbott, were taking her out to their country home. Carlotta had chattered all the way.

  "We have your usual room for you, next to mine, Merrie! I know you hate being away from your family, but you will be so much more comfy here! Did you know there is a ball tonight? I wrote you about it."

  Merrie's eyes were dancing. "Yes, but you did not say where it was."

  "It is a surprise." Lottie was grinning. "You will know when we get there."

  Merrie eyed her friend. "Lottie? I am not sure I will like this kind of surprise…"

  But her friend only laughed and hugged her fiercely. "If your gowns were consumed in the fire, I have one you can wear. Come up to your room with me."

  Merrie had settled into the room, chatting with Carlotta the entire afternoon. Her hair was left down for the ball, since time was short, and ribboned with tiny flowers in a vivid blue to match her eyes and her dress.

  "Oh, Merrie! You look so beautiful!" Lottie was watching her pirouette in the middle of the room. "It is so good to have you back."

  "But you, my friend, are about to leave." Merrie put her lower lip out in a pout.

  "Not for a month yet. We have much time to catch up before then. And then, David and I shall be glad to have you visit. He promised that you are welcome any time. Are you ready?"

  "Yes!" She leaned forward, whispering, "This is my first ball, Lottie! Pray I do not make a fool of myself."

  "Merrie, you will not. I have faith in you. Since David is in Boston until the wedding, I shall probably not be dancing much this evening, anyway. But it will be good for the gentlemen of Strasburg to know you are back, will it not?"

  Merrie rolled her eyes and made a face at her friend, as they approached the carriage. Peeking out the window, she noticed the direction the driver took.

  "All right, all right, my friend. Now, will you tell me just where this secretive ball is taking place?"

  "No. You will see when you get there." Carlotta was grinning, but was also determined.

  Merrie leaned back and sighed. "You, my friend, will be the death of me.
I know it."

  A giggle erupted from the seat across from her.

  "And in addition, I was asked specifically to bring you with me."

  A look of dismay overtook Merrie's face.

  "Lottie…" Her eyes widened. "Not Dudley Overton. Please tell me it is not—"

  "No." Lottie was hooting with laughter now. "I would not do that to you, my dear friend. Stop imagining nightmares. You will see, soon enough."

  Merrie's stomach began to feel queasy. Dudley Overton had also been writing to her while she was away at school. She had befriended him before she left home, only to be plagued with letters from him that eventually had turned into love poems, then love letters, and she had finally had to write back to try to let him down gently. His return letter had seemed angry and abrupt. There had only been one letter after that one, and Merrie had thrown it away, instead of opening it.

  "You are killing me, Lottie," she muttered under her breath.

  "Not so, Merrie Thatcher. I believe you will be pleased. Now. Close your eyes and relax. You had a long trip back, and we shall not be there for at least ten minutes."

  Merrie eyed her friend suspiciously. But she was forced to admit, she was tired. Leaning her head back against her side of the carriage, she closed her eyes, her long thick lashes resting against her cheeks.

  When the carriage began to slow, a few moments later, Carlotta reached across and touched her arm, gently.

  "Merrie?"

  She moaned, slightly.

  "Merrie, we are here."

  "Go away… I want to sleep," she whispered, without opening her eyes.

  "Oh dear." Carlotta looked toward the driver, who had opened the side door. "I had forgotten how soundly she sleeps," she said, concerned. "Merrie?" Her voice was louder now.

  "Carlotta? May I help?" a deep voice spoke behind the driver.

  "Yes! I cannot convince her to awaken, sir."

  The tall, blonde, wavy haired, muscular man entered the coach, grinning. And stared down at Merrie Thatcher, unable to move his eyes from her face.