But Jack, wearing the expressionless mask of a soldier, was gleeful with anticipation.
Thorne drew himself to his full height and swished the whip toward the muddy ground with a command of, “Kneel!”
This time Jack fell at once to the soaking earth, panting, his head bowed, his hands clutched behind his back. Thorne’s dark eyes were fixed on him as he reached for the pump handle and sent a shower of freezing water over his gypsy.
Jack shivered—from the cold of the water, from the surge of exhilaration that rushed through him.
“S-s-sir…sir! Oh, Captain Thorne!”
“Salute your officer, soldier!”
Jack gave Thorne a shaky salute, his lips trembling. He looked from Thorne up to the pump above his head then back to Thorne again.
“Please… Captain Thorne, sir. I am still dirty. Will you drench me again, sir?”
“Hold the bloody salute!” And he cranked the pump handle again.
Jack shuddered as the freezing torrent gushed over him, still saluting. He looked up, his face split wide with a glorious smile for his captain. Thorne gave the slightest ghost of a wink and bellowed, “Care to share the joke, soldier?”
“Th-this w-water is c-colder th-than at my last b-b-barracks b-bathroom, sir. Am—am I—c-clean enough n-now, C-Captain Thorne?”
“Do you think you are, Trooper?” He touched the whip to Jack’s salute. “At ease!”
Jack dropped the salute. He was still shivering, water dripping from his fringe, his eyelashes, the tip of his nose. Crystal drops gathered on his trembling lip to splash onto the toes of Captain Thorne’s boots.
“Thank you, Captain Thorne. I shan’t abandon my bathing ever again, sir.”
“Get upstairs, now!”
“Yes, sir!”
Jack pushed himself up to his feet, and with a swift glance backward at the dark, scowling eyes of his captain, marched quickly away. He could feel Thorne’s eyes on him, warming him with the strength of his desire. But he didn’t dare look back.
He heard boots on the ground, his heart skipping at the sound of the captain—his captain—following.
And that barking voice, commanding, “Get a bloody move on!”
So, with Captain Robert Thorne at his heels and his heart pounding like a military drum, Jack climbed his muddy way up the stairs and into the attic. Here the grooms turned to look at him as one but any jests, any catcalls, were silenced by the appearance of Thorne in his wake.
“Dressed and out, everyone, unless you all want a dunking!” Thorne cracked the whip against his boot. “Breakfast, then work, we’ve got guests coming today!”
The grooms who were already dressed scarpered downstairs. Those wandering in their pajamas were into their uniforms in seconds and cleared out as fast as they could. Soon the quarters were empty save for the sodden Jack and the immaculate captain.
Settling his gaze on Thorne, Jack removed his cold, saturated clothes.
“Have I been a very bad groom, Captain Thorne?”
“Marvelously so, soldier. Get yourself into the bath.” Thorne’s voice had softened a little but he corrected himself and growled, “Now!”
Jack jolted at the command. With militaristic efficiency he collected his soap and towel from the cabinet beside his bed and, naked, marched with Thorne close after him to the end of the room. Behind the door was a corridor that smelled strongly of disinfectant, leading to the grooms’ washing facilities. The slap of the captain’s footsteps echoed off the tiles.
Jack went to the farthest bathroom along. When he turned on the taps, somewhere a boiler clanked into life. There was a murky tinge to the water, but it was at least warm. He bent down to push in the plug, suppressing a sigh at the sweep of the captain’s light touch across his buttocks.
Jack looked up at his captain through the steam, waiting for a command.
“In!” He pointed the whip toward the bath. “Come on now, soldier, are you afraid of a little bit of water?”
“No, sir.”
Thorne’s voice was a furious, clipped, public school, ponies-and-privilege shout when he bellowed, “Get in the bloody bath, Woodvine, now!”
Jack’s long legs carried him into the stained enamel tub, the water up to his waist but rising higher. He took his lump of carbolic soap and lathered it up as best he could before smoothing the bubbles along his arms and across his chest and stomach, into his armpits and around the back of his neck. He pointedly avoided his groin, which was flourishing again.
His gaze never left Thorne’s. He saw the captain doing his best to maintain his stern persona, but a muscle twitched in his jaw, his dark eyes glittering with desire.
“And that hair!” The whip cracked with a fierce thwack against his polished boot. Yet the captain’s tone betrayed him, deeper, breathless.
With mimed effort, Jack combed his fingers through the damp knots.
“Yes, sir!”
He took a deep breath, remembering his bare chest being measured, expanded and relaxed, at his sign-up, and plunged himself under the water. And he stayed under, the warm water revitalizing him as he rubbed his scalp. He wondered how long Thorne could wait for him to resurface.
Barely a couple of seconds had passed before the bathtub rang with the impact of the cracked whip and a bark of, “Trooper!”
Jack stayed under, blowing a stream of insolent bubbles to the surface. The bath rang again and he felt gloved fingers tight in his hair. When Thorne pulled, there was little force but it was just enough to give the impression of an apoplectic senior officer who was fast approaching the end of a very short tether.
Gasping, Jack pushed himself back up, his hand over the captain’s on his hair.
“I was washing my hair, sir.” Water gathered on his eyelashes as he spoke his innocent words.
And Thorne leaned forward and kissed the water droplets away, caressing Jack’s jaw with his hand.
“I forgot to bring my comb, sir.”
“You’re an insolent bloody fellow.” Thorne released Jack’s hair and reached into his pocket. From it he retrieved an elegant comb fashioned from tortoiseshell, which he brandished like the whip that was currently tucked into his boot.
“Shall I oblige?”
“If you please, sir.”
When the captain’s hand touched Jack’s hair to smooth it, the leather was warm, supple on his scalp. There was no roughness in the gentle sweeps of the comb, each tangle in Jack’s soft hair subject to his officer’s tender teases and attentions. Jack sank into the sensation of being utterly cared for, of a role where there was no war on the horizon, no pretty young men with violence in their blood, nothing but his captain and him, sharing this stolen moment in a cold, grimy bathroom.
His voice was barely a whisper as he murmured, “You’re very kind, sir, to an insubordinate fellow such as I.”
“I’m a fool, Trooper.” He tapped one finger to Jack’s scalp. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking this absolves you from another spanking later.”
Jack stroked his soapy hand lightly to Thorne’s jaw.
“Jolly good, sir. I shall await your command.”
His eye darted toward Thorne’s whip, then he glanced away. Thorne reached down to touch the handle that nestled against the side of his knee and asked, “Something to say?”
Jack turned to clutch both hands against the side of the tub nearest Thorne. He rested his chin on the cold enamel, his glance moving between the whip and Thorne’s eyes. How could he ask without sounding ridiculous?
“Later, will you spank me with your hand, or…” Jack breathed deeply to force out the words. “Or…with your whip, sir?”
“I believe such impertinence”—he dropped his voice, gaze fixing on Jack’s wide eyes—“will require a taste of the whip.”
Jack nodded, his skin tingling at the promise.
“Of course, sir.”
“Any further impertinence today and you’ll taste it even harder tonight. Understand?”
&nb
sp; “Righty-bloody-ho, sir!” Jack saluted, and plunged back down under the water.
“Insolent little blighter!” The captain’s voice was dulled by water, his hand slapping hard against the bath.
Jack came up again. He tried to still his laughter, having decided to be as insolent as he possibly could. One elbow leaned casually on the side of the bath, with his free hand Jack lightly touched his erection, which peeped over the surface of the water. He pouted a smile at his captain and closed his hand around it, stroking, stroking, all the time pretending that the hand was not his own.
“Leave a captain to do a captain’s job,” Thorne murmured. Then his gloved hand closed over Jack’s, encouraging him to move harder.
Jack’s gasp was one of both surprise and pleasure. He was caught up by the captain’s pace, amazed at the intensity of the vigorous caress by another’s hand. And not just any hand, but the leather-clad hand of his captain. He moved his hips to increase the pleasure, the water splashing about him as he bucked. He wanted to cry out Thorne’s name, but he didn’t dare. He couldn’t trust his voice not to give him away.
Thorne’s lips found Jack’s then, possessing him with a long, deep kiss. His hand grew tighter, urging him on toward his climax.
Swooning into his bliss, Jack’s eyes closed and he was at once utterly within and without himself, tumbling through a bright white furnace of delight. As he laid his head back on the side of the bath, he looked up at his captain and sighed.
“Robert…my darling Robert…”
“My beautiful gypsy.” Thorne leaned forward to kiss him, reluctance in every word that followed. “And now we have to pretend all over again. Real life calls.”
Chapter Nine
As Jack worked, he was aware of a flurry in the ranks. The larking of yesterday had gone and even Queenie was behaving, all of the grooms working—or at least, doing their best to appear so. There was a tense energy discernible in the stable yard, which seemed to be bleeding over from the chateau. Every so often an officer would stride in, bark, then stride away again, or gallop off at great speed. Not that this was unusual, but it was impossible not to feel the tension in the air.
The atmosphere had a noticeable effect on Apollo, whose ears twitched, dissatisfied grunts vibrating in his throat. Jack was relieved when he saw Thorne marching toward the stable. Hopefully he’d be riding out on Apollo so the horse would be spared.
Was this it? Are we about to be sent to the front?
“Gentleman, into the yard!” He tucked his whip beneath his arm. “Fall in, quick now!”
Horses were tethered, brooms propped against stable doors, buckets left where the grooms had been standing. Despite their usual rabbly behavior, they formed neat columns and stood to attention before the captain. Perhaps not as neatly as most soldiers, who wouldn’t be smeared with horse manure or have straw in unusual places. But to Jack, whose place was at the back of one of the lines, it was an oddly impressive sight.
“General Bowes-Fitzgerald has graced our little castle with his presence!” Thorne walked back and forth at the head of the columns, looking along each one with a stern eye. He paused before Queenie to pick away and discard a piece of straw from his shoulder. Queenie twitched just a little, no doubt wondering when news of his own punishment would fall. “He’s on his way to speak to you and I want to see you all perfect! Sharp salutes, shoulders back, make your officers proud.”
Thorne glanced back between the stables, where a long avenue wound its way to the chateau. He straightened his already poker-straight back and shouted, “Attention!”
And those columns, with their messy grooms and whiff of manure, snapped to attention just in time to welcome the general.
Bowes-Fitzgerald swept into the courtyard at the head of his own entourage of three uniformed attendants. He exchanged a salute with Captain Thorne and turned to the soldiers, a slight smile on his narrow face. It was the awkward smile of a headmaster addressing the new boys at the start of turn, an effort at avuncularity by a man to whom such notions were a mystery.
“At ease,” he told them with a gesture of his hand. “My goodness, what a lot of new faces! How is our Captain Thorne treating you, chaps?”
Nobody answered, of course, but this clearly pleased the general. He gestured to one of his attendants, the man stepping forward to hand Bowes-Fitzgerald a piece of paper.
Jack heard, from a couple of rows ahead of him, a strangulated wheeze of panic. It was snipped off quickly by a dry cough.
“Well now, here we are. What news have I for you gents?” He cleared his throat and held the paper at arm’s length before bringing it closer and moving it away again as though playing the trombone, squinting to focus. “Today marks the birthday of our estimable monarch, His Majesty King George.”
He looked to the men. A quick raise of Thorne’s eyebrows encouraged his soldiers to make suitably patriotic noises.
“And to celebrate this happy occasion and, of course, our continued dominance at the front, you are all required to pop on your finest”—he looked at the men again—“your cleanest togs, and join your officers for a celebration of His Majesty’s glorious reign up at the big house!”
Another quirk of Thorne’s eyebrows assured a smattering of appreciative laughter for the general’s effort at humor.
“So there we are.” He handed the paper back to his attendant. “Sev— Nineteen hundred hours sharp and fun for all.”
He tried another smile, quickly covering its awkwardness with a salute. Then the general turned and, with a nod to the captain, ambled away from the yard.
As soon as he was out of sight, muttered exclamations of “Bloody hell!” rang out from among the rows, even with the looming presence of Captain Thorne before them.
A voice near Jack said, “I thought he was bloody well going to send us to the front!”
Jack tipped his head very slightly to one side so that he could see Captain Thorne, wondering if he would be able to detect any reaction in his face. But the visor of Thorne’s cap was shadowing the handsome officer’s eyes, and it was with effort that Jack tore his gaze away and fixed it to the back of the groom’s head in front of him.
Trooper Woodvine would be going to the chateau, to the holy of holies, the place where only the officers could go. The place where his lover slept.
Thorne’s upper lip was quirking, a prelude to a bark, but it didn’t silence the continued chatter that was rippling through the ordered lines.
“Dismissed! I want this place perfect, and if anyone steps out of line, they’re going nowhere!” Thorne sealed the command then with a gesture of his hand. “Back to work!”
As the columns fell apart, Queenie stepped forward, saying something to Thorne. He met the inaudible words with a shake of his head and said, “I don’t have time for it, Trooper. About your business!”
Queenie nodded and turned to walk away, his face set with annoyance, and perhaps just a touch of anxiety about that looming punishment.
The tension had gone from the air, replaced by a restrained holiday atmosphere. As Jack combed Apollo’s mane, the horse was noticeably calmer.
“I hope we didn’t keep you awake,” he whispered. “I’ll look after your dad, I promise. Just as I’ll look after you.”
Leaving Apollo in the stable, Jack approached Thorne. The captain was turning back to the chateau, but on his long legs Jack was able to catch the officer up.
“Captain Thorne, sir—will you be riding today?”
Jack knew his manner was unimpeachable. He was the deferential trooper, the dutiful groom. When Thorne turned to reply, Jack saw the perfect example of a captain with better things to do, wearied by all these bothersome soldiers.
“Turn him out to grass, Trooper. The general has requested my company today.”
“Yes, sir!”
Trooper Woodvine snapped him a salute, even as a futile stab of frustration entered his heart. But why torture himself? He would see his captain later.
J
ack hurried back to Apollo.
Chapter Ten
During his short time in the service of the Crown, Jack had learned that there was always one soldier in the barracks whose uniform was perfect, a lad who by some dint of fate had the magic of neatness in his fingertips. In the grooms’ quarters, this was one Trooper Burney, whose mother, had anyone asked—and Jack did—ran a laundry. Burney was always complimented on how well his uniform looked, which was quite a feat for a groom. A canny soldier would enlist him when their own uniform required attention and pay with money or cigarettes or dirty postcards.
Jack handed over his uniform and some money, and Burney set to work. Not a piece of straw was left, not a crease or mere speck of dust. It was, Jack decided, money well spent.
Jack shaved, a ritual that he performed twice a week, if that, the peppermint of his shaving cream giving his face a delightful sting. He polished his boots using a dab of Apollo’s hoof oil and, with Bryn’s aid, pomaded his hair.
“You look bloody dashing, you do!” Bryn clapped Jack on the shoulder as they headed up to the chateau. “I’ve got a lovely sister, by the way—but I’ll have to keep my eye on her if she ever sees you.”
A staff car was pulled up on the gravel near the door and large candles burned on the porch, even though the June evening wasn’t dark. There was already the sound of conversation and laughter from inside, and faintly on the breeze, music.
“They haven’t hired an orchestra, have they?”
“They might have kidnapped some of the old fellows from the village to play. You ever been to one of these bashes before, Jack?”
“Nope!”
They followed the stream of soldiers over the marble-floored hall, the grooms staring about at the opulence of the place. A glass chandelier hung down from the high ceiling and an enormous stone staircase wound up into unseen heights. Portraits of sitters in ruffs, lace collars or powdered wigs covered the walls. Gallivanting cherubs swung from glass bunches of fruit. Gold touched the mirror frames, the well-scrubbed faces of the troopers reflecting back. A bloody rabble, they were. Interlopers in a fairy palace.
The Captain and the Cavalry Trooper Page 11