The hospital, across the courtyard from the women’s rooms, was another large dormitory with curtains separating the beds. Only a few of the beds were occupied by soldiers. Martha left Clara in the capable hands of Jenny, the nurse—really a midwife—on duty, who put Clara in a cot, gave her an herbal tea for her pains, a towel for the bleeding in case she should start, then closed the curtains around her.
Clara lay on the cot contemplating the women’s conversation and wishing very much she were in the little annex room upstairs reading one of Captain Taylor’s books in solitude. The commotion of a couple of newly arrived wounded militia men gave her the chance. Slipping out of the hospital was as easy as slipping out of the women’s dorm. She silently made her way up the wooden staircase conveniently situated right outside, then slunk down along the covered corridor to the captain’s door. She quietly and slowly lifted the latch and went in.
She breathed a sigh of relief at finding the room empty. She hadn’t thought until that very moment what she would say if the captain had been present and working. He had been gruff with her that morning, so much so she had had to leave as soon as she was dressed to wash her face in the women’s dorm.
She went to the bookcase and searched along the spines. She was not in the mood for Caesar so she picked one she had never heard of. Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure was a slim, leather-bound volume. She opened to the title page, where she beheld an inscription in a masculine hand:
Sam, I sold my soul to the Devil for this one. Enjoy! And I’ll see you in Hell. —Paul
Paul? Paul Bridgers? Thoroughly intrigued, she took the thin book to her cot in her little room and began to read.
The Memoir was written by a girl a little younger than herself, but with a far more vigorous and enterprising spirit. Clara had never read such a story! Fanny Hill’s adventures were of such voluptuousness Clara had to glance around to ensure she was actually alone. Her body heated as Fanny was seduced by a woman, her ire raised when Fanny’s virginity was offered to a man far too old for her, her sex tingled and swelled as Fanny awakened to the pleasures a man could bestow upon a woman.
Clara shifted on the cot trying to relieve the wet tightness between her legs, only managing to arouse herself further. She pulled her cloak around her shoulders and leaned against the cold stone wall, her legs splayed open and crossed. When Fanny opened the parlor door to see a beautiful, sleeping youth, an idea sparked in Clara’s mind that she could touch herself as she read, a thought dismissed quickly. The pleasures of the mind were far more respectable than the sins of the flesh. Better to be caught reading an immoral story than to be caught assuaging one’s lust. Whatever would the captain think if he happened upon her in such a state? Clara smiled. Perhaps he would—
The door to the captain’s quarters crashed open.
She jumped, flattening herself against the wall, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure whoever had just entered could hear it. She peeked through a tear in the annex curtain.
Captain Taylor and Lieutenant Hamilton entered the bedroom with a clandestine air. The lieutenant bolted the door as the captain stripped off his jacket and threw it on the bed, clearly cross and irritable, muttering about that “blasted woman,” as the lieutenant countered with “Sam, Sam,” and soothed him with calming words. Clara could not quite hear what they were saying but she was certain she was the topic of conversation.
Suddenly, the captain pushed the lieutenant against the wall and took him in a violent kiss. Clara froze. Two men kissing? She had never heard of such a thing. The men tore at each other hungrily, stripping off clothes, biting, clawing, licking each other like animals in heat, until, finally, they stood completely naked, and simply pressed themselves together in a tangle of arms, their mouths and tongues still teasing tenderly.
She stared, mesmerized by the perfectly matched bodies of the two officers, lean, sculpted muscles entwining into one knot of masculine flesh. The captain held the lieutenant’s head in his hands as he covered his cheeks with kisses, murmuring something to make the lieutenant smile and nod, then pulled away and walked to his desk. He was more magnificent in the full light of day. The hair that had taunted her as it disappeared down his breeches now continued its trail to a wreath of curls framing his impressive endowments. His cock, longer but not quite as thick as Paul’s, jutted out fully aroused, bouncing slightly as he moved across the room, his heavy balls swinging enticingly underneath. He went to the desk lamp, removed the top and burner, and dipped his fingers into the oil in the font. His hand dripping with the viscous liquid, he grabbed his prick and stroked, covering himself until he was slick and glistening.
“Now your turn, Pat,” he said, his voice dripping with seductive desire.
Clara had to stifle a libidinous sigh.
The lieutenant, still waiting by the door, quickly glanced at the drawn bolt, then strolled over to the desk with a wide grin. His body was now on display, sleek and potent, his erection, matching the captain’s in length and girth, springing proudly from a mass of brown hair. Once at the captain’s side, the two men kissed luxuriatingly as the captain reached around with his oily hand to the lieutenant’s buttocks, his movements eliciting a low hum of appreciation from the lieutenant.
Clara squeezed her thighs together hoping for relief, instead provoking herself with a slick massage.
As the lieutenant rolled his hips against the captain’s hand, the captain murmured against his lips; “…the bed…” was all she could hear. His expression slackened with lust, the lieutenant dutifully went to the foot of the bed and bent over, holding onto the low footboard, his butt taut and round above powerful thighs. The captain followed and arched over him, licking and kissing his back, gently pressing his hips against the lieutenant’s firm bottom, urging his legs apart with his knees.
And then the captain aimed his prick at the lieutenant’s arsehole and pushed in slowly.
Clara clapped her hands to her mouth to suppress a gasp. Paul Bridgers had taught her a great many things about life and love. The fact that two men could join in sexual union was not one of them. Yet, she and Paul had done precisely the same thing, and the coupling of the devastatingly handsome officers seemed like the most natural act in the world.
The captain’s fingers danced lightly on the lieutenant’s back for a moment before he held on to his shoulders and pushed his cock farther. The lieutenant lifted his head, exhaling a groan, then twisted back to gaze at his lover. The captain grabbed a fistful of the lieutenant’s brown hair and pulled his head back for a devastatingly deep kiss. Lust spiked in Clara’s core. As the captain swallowed the lieutenant’s tongue, she opened her mouth and thrust out her own.
The anguish of pleasurable pain wracked the lieutenant’s face as the captain pushed in deeper, then pulled out slowly. The captain snaked his hand around to take his friend’s cock in his fist, sliding up and down the hard shaft. The lieutenant let out a long, growling moan.
Clara’s body screamed for relief. She could not possibly touch herself without making noise. Or could she? Her left hand found the ties of her petticoats and loosened them enough so her right hand could maneuver under the waistbands and slowly scrunch up her shift. Her fingers finally found her excited clit throbbing for attention. She smoothed the sticky wetness over the nub, tightening her lips against the urge to sigh, stroking slowly, then matching the rhythm of the captain’s hand on his lover’s cock, uniting her lust with theirs.
Captain Taylor drove aggressively into the lieutenant, pumping his prick with equal violence, pulling and lengthening the shaft toward the floor. Sweat sheened his back, his muscles flexed and tensed as he raced to completion, hissing curses, rumbling affirmations. Clara frantically rubbed her tender clit, wishing, wanting, imagining it was her the captain plundered, as she climbed to an elusive crest only to slip and tumble back down.
She needed one of the officers to climax first.
It was the lieutenant who could no longer hold out. He clenched his jaw, stra
ining against a cry, as the captain milked him unrelentingly, sending jets of pearlescent fluid onto the wooden boards. Clara came next, her body finding its peak and holding on for the most glorious second before taking her over the edge, her eyes ripping themselves from the scene only momentarily as her head fell back in relief.
Desperately quieting her panting breaths, she watched the captain. He savagely seized the lieutenant’s hips to steady himself as he slammed against his arse, his pendent balls crashing into the lieutenant’s spent sac. The lieutenant gripped the footboard, his knuckles white, his face a mass of creases, his body staggering against the savage rhythm. At his final thrust, the captain closed his eyes tightly and gritted his teeth, choking back a rapturous cry. For a minute more, he continued to press his groin into the lieutenant as his body jerked in sputtering spasms, until his head fell back and he exhaled a groaning sigh. He spread his palms on the lieutenant’s butt cheeks, smoothing the skin, then bent over his back and wrapped his arms around him.
“Thank you, Pat. Thank you, my friend,” he said with silky satisfaction.
The silence of afterglow was deafening. Or perhaps it was the blood rushing and pulsing through her head. Clara stiffened, her hand still down her skirt. She dared not move.
The captain’s prick slipped out, his emission dripping to the floor to mingle with the creamy pool. He kissed the lieutenant, gave him a little smack on the butt, then both officers dressed calmly and left.
Clara exhaled.
Chapter Thirteen
The captain seemed in a good mood for the next couple of days, despite the fact that the expected supplies were now long overdue. From gossip in the sewing circle, Clara discovered Captain Taylor was working diligently and efficiently, sending out spies and scouts to comb the area for information if not the actual hoped-for provisions.
By the end of the following day, Clara’s courses had indeed started and she once again had to avail herself of the herbal concoctions at the hospital. While Jenny mixed a remedy, conversation wandered from her work as a nurse to her home and family. Clara was pleased to learn Jenny had relatives in Gloucestershire, connections, she secretly hoped, that could help her return to England.
“I’ve never been myself, of course. I was born here,” Jenny said with a measure of pride. She turned her gentle blue eyes to Clara. “Did you know Captain Taylor has family from there too? I think near Cirencester—”
Urgent shouts and yelling at the entrance to the fort stopped her from continuing. The commotion got closer, until several soldiers appeared at the hospital door carrying wounded men on medical litters. Battle injuries were not unheard of this far away from the fighting field, but they were rare enough to be worrisome to the fort’s residents, who were quickly gathering.
“Get Captain Taylor!” Jenny called to one of the women. She quickly and capably took control, giving orders to all present, referring to the wounded soldiers as “Johnny”—“Put Johnny over there … You—go to that Johnny … Get Johnny Red a blanket.”
Mimicking what Jenny and the other women were doing, Clara grabbed towels and a basin, then offered soothing words to the injured as she cleaned their wounds. She knelt at the side of one young man with sandy blond hair, his strong, robust form defeated by a bullet to his side. His clothes were soaked through, a brilliant red.
Clara grasped his hand. “The nurse will be here soon, soldier.”
His face was screwed shut in agony, his breathing weak, but the sound of her voice enlivened him. His eyes flew open. A familiar shade of blue-green.
“Redmond!” she exclaimed. “My God, I never thought I would see you again.” She smoothed her palm over his cheek, trying desperately to control the torrent of emotions. If Redmond was here, Paul was nearby. He had to be. “You’re fighting for the patriots now?”
He attempted a grin. “You said ‘patriot’.”
“And you should not be speaking.” She examined the shredded and bloody skin at his side and knew he would not survive long. She wiped his brow with a cool towel.
“My lady, I see you have learned a new skill,” came the captain’s voice behind her.
She gave him a weak smile clouded by anguished tears.
“You know this man,” he said solemnly, and knelt beside her.
“Yes, captain. This is Redmond Moncrief. He was my husband’s groom until circumstances made him leave our service.” It was the most diplomatic way to put it. “He is betrothed to my lady’s maid, Annabella. The one with the red hair.”
The captain looked Redmond squarely in the eye. “Then you know Lady Clara Strathmore?”
“Yes … sir,” he sputtered.
The captain placed a hand on Clara’s shoulder, his touch gentle despite his intention. “And this is she?” His tone was formal and direct.
Redmond flicked a curious glance at Clara. “It is … indeed.”
“Thank you, soldier. And thank you for your bravery in fighting for our cause.” The captain squeezed her shoulder as he rose. “Excuse me. I must check on the others, my lady.”
Clara’s eyes burned now with tears of anger. So he got what he wanted from a dying man. She dabbed at Redmond’s brow with a wet cloth, smoothing back his hair. He was quite handsome. No wonder Annabella was so attracted to him. She offered a weak smile, but Redmond surely understood his fate.
He pawed feebly at her arm. “Lady … I saw him … Bridgers …”
She had to suppress a squeal. “You saw Paul? Is he alive? Where is he?” She was beside herself with frustration and joy.
Redmond was fading away quickly. “He’s fighting …”
“Oh, God.” Her heart clenched. It was her worst nightmare.
“He … loves you.”
Tears blinded her as her head spun. Was Paul to meet a fate like this? She couldn’t bear to see his body battered and beaten.
“Lady … tell Annabella … you must tell her I love her.”
Clara watched in horror as the blue-green eyes lost their vitality and went dark.
* * * * *
Lady Strathmore’s mourning cry shattered the quiet hum of the hospital. It was intolerable. Bad for morale.
Sam quickly went to her side and took her arm, lifting her to standing.
“My lady, you should not be here. You are not prepared for such a scene. Please, let me take you upstairs.” He signaled to Pat to take over his duties on the hospital floor.
She was still sobbing uncontrollably by the time they reached his quarters. Sam sat her down in the wingback and knelt beside her.
“My lady, have you not witnessed the aftermath of battle before?” She was the wife of a general, after all.
She shook her head. “No,” she said, barely audible, her lips trembling.
He took both her hands in his. “It is quite normal to experience such grief when we lose friends. It is the most difficult part of war. You must feel free to talk about your feelings with those around you when this happens.”
She sniffled and inhaled deeply. “Captain, I need you to do a favor for me. For Redmond. Please.”
“Yes, yes. What is it?”
“Take a note to his betrothed, Annabella, my maid in Chesterton. She must know. It will kill her, but she must know.”
“Yes, of course.” Sam studied the woman before him. The depth of her emotions for a servant exposed the vulnerability lying beneath her usual imperious demeanor. He pressed her delicate hands between his, hoping his warmth would calm her juddering sobs. It seemed to work. She offered him a fragile smile.
Even in her despair she was beautiful. She stirred up a desire, a craving in him that had lain dormant, or possibly had never existed. Every night, he awaited her appearance at his door, only to be driven mad by her proximity as she slept in the annex.
He hated that he would have to provide his messenger to Chesterton with two notes: one for Annabella about the loss of her betrothed and one for General Strathmore requesting an exchange of supplies and prisoners of war for
the return of his wife.
Chapter Fourteen
General Strathmore sat back in satisfaction, spreading his legs just an inch more, tilting his hips. He had trained the girl well, although her vigorously bobbing head at his crotch indicated she was perhaps a little too exuberant. But she would learn to go more slowly, learn to savor taking all of him down her throat, instead of making distracting choking sounds. She was still rather young. There would be at least a year’s worth of training before she would be truly ready for him. Her willingness to please, without even a threat on his part, indicated she would do quite well.
She had been so scared, so submissive the first time. He had made sure that her maidenhead was intact, of course, as part of what he called an official health examination. He required promises from her and her parents that she would remain a virgin as long as she worked in his household, until he gave his permission otherwise. Little did any of them realize that it would be his prick breaching the barrier to her innocence.
He laid his hands on her head as a signal to slow her pace. “Yes, my dear, that’s right. Yes.” He groaned and relaxed against the back of the wooden office chair.
There was a loud and bothersome rap at the door.
“What is it?” he barked, pushing the girl’s head back down onto his lap.
“General Strathmore, sir? There is a very important dispatch from the Americans at Fort Revolution.”
Damn. Hawkins. If a dispatch fell into the hands of Lieutenant Hawkins then it was most definitely important.
“Come.”
Hawkins entered the office and saluted, then turned a most disagreeable shade of crimson. He quickly closed the door behind him.
“Well, Hawkins, what is so damned urgent?”
Mild disgust flitted across the lieutenant’s face before he looked away.
“Lady Clara Strathmore, sir, has been found. She is being held by the Americans at Fort Revolution. They are demanding an exchange of prisoners and supplies for her return.”
The General’s Wife: An American Revolutionary Tale Page 15