“Oh, bloody hell,” the general muttered. He wrenched the girl off and she tumbled backwards onto the floor. “Leave me,” he growled, buttoning his breeches.
The disheveled girl curtsied and scurried away.
He stood, frustration fueling the urgent need in his crotch. He paced behind his desk, hoping movement would distract his unruly cock. “Damned bloody colonials think they can play games with me!”
“I’m sure you anticipated this, sir. It is a rather conventional move.”
Hawkins was right. Of course. The bugger was always right. “Do they mention the child?”
The lieutenant drew the missive from his pocket and skimmed the contents. “No, sir. They merely say your wife is healthy and unharmed.”
“Give me that.” The general grabbed the note from the lieutenant’s hands. “I suppose I have to respond in an official capacity this time. I can’t bloody well go and attack them, can I?”
Ever the intelligent fellow, Hawkins held his tongue.
“This chit is more trouble than she’s worth. I should have fucked her raw until I stopped up her belly and left her back home in bloody Gloucestershire.” Strathmore inhaled deeply. “Go. Let me think about this. It’s official military business and I have to act accordingly.”
* * * * *
Sebastian was quite happy to oblige his superior by leaving the office as quickly as he could. As he walked toward the front door, the general called for the poor maidservant. It was despicable.
His stomach rumbled, reminding him he hadn’t yet had breakfast. He walked to the barracks at a steady pace, not really wanting to get on with the business of war. It had arrived too early this morning, and autumn in the colonies, with its piles of brilliant leaves and brisk, enlivening air, deserved to be savored.
When he arrived at his officer’s quarters his own lovely housemaid was pacing and fretting in the entryway.
“Lieutenant!” She jumped when he walked in.
“Miss Rogers.” Sebastian nodded and removed his hat. “May I have my breakfast in the dining room?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” she said nervously.
Whatever it was, Sebastian was not ready to deal with it until he had something to eat, preferably eggs and bacon. Maybe some of that oat mush with maple sugar the cook made, too.
He knew Annabella was outside the dining room door waiting for him to finish. He ate what he needed and called for her to come in.
“Miss Rogers, you have some news, perhaps?” he said, sipping coffee.
“I’m so sorry, sir. A man delivered a note today. It’s for me, I know. He said it was and I can read my own name. I opened it but I cannot read it. It’s in my Lady Clara’s hand. I know it, sir. I know her writing even though I cannot read it. And I know her signature. She taught it to me.”
Lady Strathmore. Christ. The last thing he wanted was to be caught up in some blasted intrigue. “Let me see the note. I can read it to you,” he said politely.
Annabella curtsied one too many times. “Thank you, sir. Thank you.” She pulled the letter from her pocket and handed it to him.
It was indeed in a woman’s hand, written hurriedly. He quickly glanced over the contents, realizing he would have to relay the message truthfully and word for word.
My dear Annabella,
It has been quite some time since we have seen each other, I know. I have had my own adventures and am now in an American fort several miles north of Chesterton. While at the fort we tended wounded soldiers. Your own Redmond was amongst them. He had been fighting valiantly for a cause he feels is worthy. We spoke briefly. Annabella, sweet girl, he loves you dearly, he told me with his own lips. He died telling me this. Please know that he thought only of you until the very end.
Your humble servant,
Lady Clara Strathmore
Annabella stood stock still, eyes wide, mouth open, reddening from lack of air. She was in shock. Instantly he went to her.
“Miss Rogers.” He placed his hands on her shoulders. “Annabella.” He squeezed, and gently shook her.
Annabella gasped and gulped for breath, then fell to her knees. Her sobs were unstoppable. Sebastian tried to get her to stand to no avail. He picked her up in both arms, then, negotiating his way through the kitchen, carried her to the lean-to just behind, and laid her down on her bed. He knelt down beside her.
Up until the moment he read the note, Sebastian had only had suspicions about Annabella and Strathmore’s former groom. Now he realized the connection was deep, something he himself longed for but had never experienced. Yet, seeing the girl in such abject pain made him reconsider his own desire for companionship and love, until she sat up, grabbed his jacket, and sobbed into his chest, clutching him to her body as if he were about to float away. He found it so easy to wrap his arms around her, pull her close, whisper tender sympathies in her ear. It felt good to be touching her like this. Too good. He nestled his nose in her fiery red hair, then pressed his lips to kiss the silky tresses.
This was definitely an agreeable way to spend an autumn morning in America.
Chapter Fifteen
Clara loved to watch Sam in the middle of the night. Almost like clockwork, he turned off the lamp, clambered into bed, then waited a few minutes before sliding off the mattress to stand in the corner by the door where it was darkest. The first time, his not-so-practiced movements roused her to the curious scene of him with one hand pressed flat against the wall, the other in front of him, his head down, his hips tucked. Moments later, the rapid slap of skin on wet skin accompanied by ragged breathing made plain what he was doing. The next night she pretended to be asleep and waited. He did it again. To her delight, he did it every night, and, also to her delight, she found she could do it too. Wrapped up as he was in his own pleasure, the captain never suspected she was taking her own.
During the tedious workday, despite the genial conversation and intriguing gossip of the women, her thoughts meandered to the captain, especially to thoughts about her and the captain alone behind a bolted door. She would wait by his bedside at night, and as he slid off she would grab hold of his thighs, kneel before him, and suck his magnificent cock. Or she would straddle him as he lay asleep, waking him with a glorious fuck…
But then her thoughts would drift to Paul and she would quickly sober, struggling to tamp down fears for his safety.
Would he be jealous? Would a brothel owner mind so much if she had an indulgent dalliance with a handsome, intelligent American officer?
Would she even have the temerity to initiate such a dalliance? What if the captain were horribly insulted? It would make their already uncomfortable situation far more intolerable. Every night they simply mumbled their good evenings, then coexisted in uneasy silence, she trying to read on her cot, he doing something at his desk.
That evening, after Clara was finished sharing supper with the women, Corporal Bowman appeared to escort her to the captain’s quarters as he did every night. When they arrived, Lieutenant Hamilton was there, talking with the captain, his affable presence dissipating the awkwardness that usually hung thick in the air. The next night, the lieutenant was again in the captain’s chambers when she was deposited at the door. He was a welcome fixture in their nights thereafter.
The two officers usually chatted about literature and history rather than actual military strategy or garrison concerns. Clara remained in the annex, pretending not to listen, and not being very good about it. She couldn’t help herself, she had to interject comments, especially the night when the men discussed whether Pope’s translation of the Iliad was accurate. Of course it was! And while she didn’t know the original Greek, she was sure the work captured—for the English mind at least—the sense of the original. After that, she was invited to pass the evening alongside the two Americans, she continuing the ever-needed sewing and mending, while the lieutenant smoked a pipe and the captain paced, gestured, and otherwise could not keep still.
A few times, Clara looked up from he
r handwork only to catch the captain staring straight at her and smiling, attentions that warmed her to the very core, flushing her face and dampening her palms. At such times, she had to concentrate very hard on not letting her needle slip, not increasing the size of her stitches…
Not standing up to wrap her arms around his neck, murmuring his name, and drawing him down to kiss her.
* * * * *
“You know, Sam, you’ve been in far too good a mood every single day for the last, I don’t know how long, but not long after that woman began sleeping with you—”
“Pat, she is most definitely not sleeping with me,” Sam scowled.
It had become a habit for Pat to join him in his chambers before Lady Strathmore arrived in the evening. They often talked about military matters, or sometimes male concerns. Usually the topics strayed to Lady Strathmore, as she was both a military matter and a male concern. Tonight’s topic was decidedly on the male side.
Pat returned an annoying smirk as he crossed his leg over his knee and settled further into the wingback. “Whatever you want to call it, but she’s doing something, isn’t she?”
“What?” Sam shoved back the desk chair and stood up. “You think I got her sucking my cock at night? Christ, I wish! I certainly do. But no, my friend, it is far more innocuous than that.”
Pat smirked some more.
Sam paced before him. “Look, I know when she is asleep and she sleeps rather heavily.”
“You know?”
“Yes.”
“How?” Pat raised a skeptical brow.
“I hear her breathing deeply, like one does when one is asleep. She goes to sleep and I get up and go to the corner of the room—”
“You get up?”
“I can’t very well do it on the bed, now, can I? She’d hear the bed frame squeaking or banging against the wall.”
“Right.” Pat shook his head in disbelief. “Go on.”
“So I get up and do it in the corner. It’s far too dark for her to know what’s going on even if she did wake up and try to look.”
“Hmmm.” There was that smirk again, this time with a dubious squint. “And, my friend, how do you know she is not waking up and watching?”
“Because, when she’s fast asleep she makes a little noise. Sort of like, well, a purring kitten.”
“A kitten!” Pat tilted his head to the ceiling and threw up his hands. “For Christ’s sake! A kitten?”
“Don’t worry, she is completely unaware of what’s going on.” Sam grinned. “I do it every night.”
“Well, thank the heavens you found a way to frig yourself, captain,” pronounced Pat. “You are extremely difficult to work with if you do not. You know that, don’t you?”
“I am quite aware of my own needs, thank you, lieutenant,” Sam snapped.
Pat reached into his pocket for his pipe and tobacco. “You do realize she’s probably doing the very same thing while you’re going at it. That’s most likely what that kitten sound is.”
Sam’s jaw dropped. “You think she…?” He trailed off, imagining it. His body responded far too quickly.
Pat flicked his gaze to Sam’s crotch. “I have no idea.” He took his first puff. “But I rather like the thought, don’t you? She’s quite lovely. I would love to see that beautiful face of hers abandoned to ecstasy.”
Apparently Sam wasn’t the only one who considered the viscountess in improper predicaments. “You think I should bed her, don’t you?”
“I think every soldier in this garrison would like to bed her. You, my dear captain, have the opportunity.” Pat sucked on his pipe.
Sam chuckled. “I do, don’t I?” Now it was his turn to smirk. “However, lieutenant, I am supposed to be the example of ascetic continence for my men.”
“And,” Pat added, “the safety of this fort would be threatened if General Strathmore ever found out that his beautiful wife had been violated by rebel scum.”
There was a knock on the door.
“Come, corporal,” called Sam as he circled back around to his desk.
Corporal Bowman entered with Lady Strathmore, saluted, and left to take his post outside the door.
“You two look guilty,” she said as she took a chair near the lamp and gathered her sewing on her lap. She looked back and forth between them. “Cat got your tongue tonight, gentlemen?”
Sam and Pat exchanged glances before Pat began to laugh uncontrollably, dragging Sam with him in his mirth. Lady Strathmore merely thinned her lips and went back to her handwork.
“Don’t give us that look, Lady Strathmore,” said Sam wiping tears from his eyes. “You know the women do the same. I see you all whispering and giggling so the men don’t hear.”
“Well, we are just women, after all. It’s not like we need to command respect and obedience from our subordinates. As women we understand our place is at the bottom,” she said provokingly. “We have no subordinates.”
“Uh, oh.” Pat grinned.
“Certainly a viscountess would never find herself at the bottom,” countered Sam, now pacing along the foot of the bed. “You’ll always have servants beneath you.”
“Yes, captain, that is true. But, and I only say this as a guest in your land, when your revolution is finally won, and your republican government installed, will women be included in your councils and congresses? I think not.”
“Damned free-thinking Mrs. Scott!” grumbled Sam.
“You’ll even free the African decades before you free women because there are men amongst the race.”
Sam stopped and turned to her. “You, madam, are infuriating.”
“I know.” Her smile was wonderfully beguiling.
But Sam couldn’t be defeated by a pretty face. “How does your husband deal with this insubordination? I cannot imagine he, of all men, would allow such an undisciplined tongue in his house.”
“He doesn’t have to. With him I am complacent and conciliatory,” she said, subdued. “I would never contradict or challenge him.”
“I cannot believe that,” countered Sam. “Or rather, I cannot believe you do that willingly.”
“No, but he is my lord and master, so I must act accordingly.” There was a bitter bite to her words. “And he treats all his subordinates the same.” She glanced up at him. “We all, captain, must hold our tongues in his house.”
Sam gazed at her. If her husband didn’t enjoy her barbs and wit, the man was a damned fool. It was a shame. To pass an evening with a beautiful woman as she performed simple domestic tasks and boldly challenged his views would be the height of marital bliss. That, and waking up wrapped around her nude body, her honey-brown locks draped loosely against the pillows of their bed, breathing in the fragrance of her arousal as his needy cock nudged between her thighs…
Pat cleared his throat, bringing Sam back to the present. He adjusted the fullness in his crotch as discreetly as possible.
But Lady Strathmore had stood up and was coming toward him, her mending in her hand. Sam panicked momentarily and looked over at Pat, who shrugged his shoulders.
She unfurled the dark brown jacket she had been fixing and held it out for Sam to take. “Here you go, captain. Is the repair to your satisfaction?”
Nonplussed, Sam took the jacket from her. “What? Oh, right, the tear. Why, yes. In fact, I almost quite forgot I had torn it.” He ran his fingers along the scarlet facing, then held the jacket out for Pat to see. “You really can’t tell, now, can you?”
She took the newly mended coat from him and placed it on the bed, then began to unbutton the dingy green woolen jacket he was wearing, her fingers calmly working as his head whirled in astonishment at her touch. “I think the morale of your troops will be uplifted when they see their captain in his dress uniform.” She tugged the green jacket off him. “That is what this is, right?” she asked as she guided his arms into the sleeves of the brown jacket.
“Yes, yes.” Sam was less concerned about the morale of his soldiers at the moment and m
ore about the now-visible sign of desire in his breeches.
“It’s a little worn,” she sighed, fussing over him. “The women tell me that you are lucky to have a uniform at all, much less a dress uniform.” She stood back. “You look quite handsome, captain.”
Sam flushed and hoped to heaven she would not glance lower than his waist.
“If it weren’t for this damnable civil war I would like to see you dressed in some frippery.” She tilted her head. “You’ve a fine figure.” She waved her hands about his person as if draping him in fine materials. “Yes. Mustard-brown velveteen with golden silk lining. Some lace perhaps.”
He could put up with mustard and gold, not so much the lace.
“And a wig, of course.”
He hated wearing a wig. The very thought dissipated his ardor, until he met the twinkle in her eyes and saw she was teasing.
“Civil war, my lady?” baited Pat. “Are we then rebellious Caesar to your Pompey? I rather thought we were being treated more like the Gauls.”
“Yes, but the Gauls were utter barbarians, were they not, lieutenant?” she shot back. “You lot may be savages, but at least you know your Latin.”
Sam laughed. She was perfect.
“Forgive me, my lady, I forget myself sometimes,” Pat said snidely. “What with the quashing of my freedoms and such.” He blew out a steady stream of gray smoke as his lips twitched into a wry smile.
She took up the gauntlet. “Well, I suppose your General Washington must consider himself as Vercingetorix, then, uniting the thirteen disparate colonies against us.”
“No, my lady,” countered Sam. “That would be our Congress, our people’s own representatives, who united us. General Washington takes orders from Congress.” He raised an eyebrow at Pat. “Nor should we think of our great commander as a tyrannical Caesar.”
Lady Strathmore removed Sam’s newly mended officer’s jacket, considering it as she hung it on a peg. “I’ve been wondering, how is it that someone as young as yourself leads this group of men, Captain Taylor?”
“I distinguished myself in service under General Washington—”
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