Temptation (Avon Red)

by Leda Swann

  It would be a deception if she were to send it to him, but a harmless one. They would never meet in person for him to find her out. He would never know that her hair was not raven black but a soft brown just starting to go gray at the edges, that her waist was no longer quite as slender as it was, and her bosom was far more rounded than it had a right to be. He would not see that she was shy about her no-longer-youthful body, but would think she was brave and bold like Myrtle. Bold enough to show the man she fancied what she wanted, and to lead him on to give it to her.

  And it gave her a secret thrill to think she would be fueling his fantasies, that he would be thinking of her as he lay in his tent at night, all alone save for the night birds and insects. For sure the rag-and-bone man didn’t think of her at night. Doubtless he spent his evenings in a dark alley with a drunken sixpenny whore, shoving his hands down her bodice and up her skirts, taking his pleasure from her roughly, little caring whether he hurt her or no.

  The sergeant-major would have more class than that. He would treat his woman with love and tenderness.

  Not that she would ever find out, of course. Still, it would do no harm to pretend for a while longer.

  Shaking her skirts back down over her ankles, she moved over to the writing table and picked up pen and paper. She would send him a short note to go with the tintype, and hope for the best.

  Five

  Percy Carterton sat in his tent, writing as hastily as he could. They had received the orders at dinner, shortly after the last packets had arrived, that they were to move out in the morning. To his delight, there had been another letter for him from England, along with a precious photograph of the woman he adored.

  In the haste to get mobilized, he’d barely had the time to skim read the letter he carried in his pocket, but the few stolen minutes had been enough to put a bright song into his heart.

  His darling Beatrice had replied to his last letters, and with words as warm as any lover could desire. With every line they exchanged, he fell more deeply in love with her—with her courage, her dedication to those in need, and her passion. Especially with her passion. Her latest letter was burning a hole in his pocket, it was so hot.

  Though their mobilization orders had been urgent, he stole enough time from his preparations to reply. He could not have her thinking that he did not care for her, or that he had been shocked by the warmth of her words. Quite the opposite. They had given him heart for the battle that was to come.

  His commanding officer was shouting orders outside. He scrawled a loving farewell to his Beatrice, sealed the letter, and made for the officers’ mess. Darkness had already fallen, but the full moon lit up the campsite better than a dozen lanterns. “See this gets to England,” he said to the officers’ batman, thrusting the letter into his hand.

  The batman stopped in his tracks and gave him an alarmed look. “But—?”

  “Don’t ask me how. Just do it.” And he strode off again, his boot heels clacking together. Willis was a resourceful fellow. If anyone could see that his letter got to its destination, Willis was the man.

  The following morning, Percy marched across the dusty ground at the head of his company of men. His stride was as jaunty as a cock robin’s. After months of simmering tensions since England had annexed the Transvaal, the Boers had finally responded by coming out in open rebellion against the new government. It was finally time to show these upstart Boers who was really in charge.

  The sooner they engaged with the enemy, the better he would like it. He would fight this war and win it, and return to England as the proud victor, the captain of a brave troop of soldiers. As soon as he returned to England, he would find his angel and claim her as his own. She would be powerless to resist him, indeed, she would have no will to resist him, longing for him as ardently as he longed for her.

  He could tell from her letters that she would be a passionate mistress, bolder and more inventive in bed than many women with more experience than she had. Their hot natures would mesh perfectly together, creating a fiery explosion of desire.

  What did he care for the dust turning his white cork hat a dull, muddy brown, and staining the dark blue trousers of his regimentals? The early summer sun was on his back and the wind was in his hair, and he was off to fight for merry England.

  The pipe band played merrily as they marched, their cheerful tunes piercing the clear air and carrying across the countryside in a show of defiance. The spirits of all the men in the column were high. Their months of inaction through the winter had told heavily on them, and even the prospect of a new place to camp broke the monotony of their dreary days of waiting.

  Three hours later, when the regiment had moved barely a mile down the road, he was less sanguine. The summer sun beat down hot on the dark fabric of his uniform, and his sweat prickled his underarms. Early in the day his horse had taken lame, and he had been forced to dismount and walk at the head of his troops. His boots, better suited for riding than for long marches, had rubbed his heels into blisters. He had even sunk so low as to feel a moment of envy for the uncivilized Boers, who had no uniform but wore clothes of an indeterminate mid brown or gray—light enough to reflect the worst of the sun, and loose enough to breathe.

  The pipe band had long since given up playing, and the band members marched along as dully as the rest of the company with their instruments at their sides.

  The supply wagons were the worst of their problems. Poorly maintained and worked hard, they were now showing their age. More heavily laden than usual, their lightweight axles could not stand up to the hard ground over which they had to travel. Every time another one broke, the whole column had to stop and cool their heels, standing around in the hot sun, until the wagon was repaired.

  When the sun finally went down, they had traveled maybe half of the distance to the small encampment they were charged with fortifying. The wagons were brought together into a defensive circle. Inside the circle, the men ate cold rations then unrolled their bedrolls and lay down in the open, without even bothering to pitch a tent. Despite the difficulties of the day, their mood was still light, and snatches of song and ribald laughter carried out over the veld.

  Captain Carterton chose a relatively isolated spot for his bedroll right at the edge of the laager, almost under the wagon wheels. Hoping for any measure of privacy was too much, but at least here he had a few yards of space to call his own, and could read over his letter without fear of someone looking over his shoulder.

  He unfolded the pages, smoothing out each wrinkle with a careful hand. The moon was nearly full, and bright enough to read by.

  Westminster, London, October 1880

  My poor lonely Percy,

  I have read your letter over and over again. Never has anyone written or spoken such words to me, and I had no idea to what extent such words would play on my feelings. Reading your words I can see so clearly you lying in your tent thinking of me. My skin warms and my heart races in my chest with the thought of being so vivid in your imagination.

  But how can I reply to such a letter? As you say, the die is cast, and I see no reason to hold back now. If I had been offended you would not have received this letter. And how could I reply with idle chatter of cricket or of the weather when your words were so full of physical love?

  There is only one way. I am sitting at my desk and my hand is shaking ever so slightly as I write. I am alone, with my roommate halfway into her shift. No one will disturb me as I write to you.

  In my letter I will enclose a photo of me, but all you can see is my face atop a volume of clothing. In the photo you can see my hair is dark. In fact it is a light brown, and my eyes are green. Look at that photo and now in your mind remove all that clothing, layer by layer. First you will discover rather utilitarian undergarments, but always clean and white. And underneath that you will find not the chubby body of a woman who gossips and does needlepoint all day, nor the scrawniness of someone malnourished, but the slightly stocky frame of a woman who works all day
as a nurse.

  My shoulders are perhaps broader than most women from good nourishment and the physical labor of lifting patients. My breasts are smaller than many. You stare at my nipples, which become small hard points of pleasure, and are quite pink with the flush of your attentions.

  Lower down, the soft hair that you so gently run your fingers through, is also a light brown and quite sparse. If you opened this letter carefully, and I hope you have, you will have found a small lock of hair, quite short with a tight curl. I cut it with love, and hope that it will help you with your thoughts in your next letter.

  Although I have slightly stocky shoulders my hips are slim, with buttocks that are firm to the touch.

  Last night I lay in my bed, imagining I was in your stretcher in Africa, like in your letter. I could smell the dry grass, the dust of the plains, and your body close by. A wild animal called softly in the night, perhaps a lion or a jaguar. I looked up to watch you undress, silhouetted in the moonlight. Already you are standing proud, your body rampant at the thought of lying next to me.

  I confess it is hard to write of such things, but in my mind we are in a primeval place, nature all around, and we are together, man and woman with only canvas to keep nature at bay.

  Your cock (there, I wrote it!) was hard and clearly visible against the background light of the tent.

  As if it had a mind of its own my hand reached out to touch you. I couldn’t wait, for yours was the first I have ever touched in a loving way. I hoped you would want me to do that.

  Your hand dipped lower and my body arched to give you better access to my secret places while my hand involuntarily squeezed you a bit harder. Unexpectedly you came, spurting your seed over your belly and chest. As you peaked, your hand rubbed harder between my legs and, like you, I was unable to stop the flood of pleasure overwhelming me.

  We lay in the cool of the night, the blanket had fallen to the dusty dirt floor unheeded. I watched you fall asleep, kissing you good-night as your breathing slowed to a peaceful rhythm. I pulled the blanket over us and I too fell asleep, the sounds of Africa caressing my mind.

  Write soon, my love,

  Beatrice

  He could almost hear her voice speaking to him through the night, the voice that had helped him to keep his sanity through these long, lonely days in South Africa. Soft and sweet, it had called to him like no other.

  How he wished he was alone in his tent and could reach down into his bedroll to stroke the erection that her letter had provoked in him, to think of her standing in the flesh before him, to dream of her sweet body until he massaged himself into a temporary oblivion. But his neighbors were too close for comfort, and he had no wish to be caught out like a schoolboy. Instead, he gritted his teeth and willed his rampant body to subside.

  Despite his tiredness, and the prospect of another long and frustrating march in the morning, it was a long time before he could settled down comfortably enough on his bedroll to go to sleep. Even when he finally dropped off, it was only to dream of Beatrice.

  He woke with the sun, feeling washed out and wretched after a night of fruitless fantasies. It was easier to dream of Beatrice and to imagine that she was close by him when the sun was gone from the sky and all was dark around him. In the harsh glare of the day, he could not conjure up her image so easily. The illusion that he could almost reach out and touch her faded in the heat and the sunshine.

  The trumpeter played a drowsy reveille, and all around him the men started to wake up, turning over in their bedrolls and rubbing sleep out of their eyes. He was already up and had shaken the worst of the dust off his bright red jacket and pulled it on over his rather crumpled linen. He made a face at the sweat and grime that already dirtied it. There would be no clean clothes until they reached the new campsite, and at their slow pace it could take them another day or more.

  He splashed a little water on his face and hands from his canteen just to refresh himself. Thank heavens Beatrice could not see him now, unwashed and covered in dust. She might change her mind about him and decide that a rough-and-ready soldier was not to her taste after all.

  The fleeting thought brought a smile to his face. He was not worried about Beatrice’s fidelity—hadn’t she stayed his faithful correspondent these many months?

  Breakfast was cold rations again. The company commander did not want to linger to make a fire to heat their food. The men grumbled a little, but subsided when Percy reminded them that the sooner they left, the sooner they would make it to the camp, where there would be hot food aplenty and decent lodgings once more.

  This time the pipe band didn’t play quite so jauntily as they set off once more. Cold beef jerky and a lump of bread for dinner at night and then again for breakfast the next morning would dampen anyone’s enthusiasm for music-making.

  Percy felt no more like singing than the rest of the company. Though he had padded his feet with strips of linen torn off a spare shirt, still the blisters on his heels smarted with every step he took. And with every step that he took, his rage against the Boers, who had dragged them into this conflict with their refusal to accept British sovereignty, grew. Had it not been for their intransigence, he would be home in England, with Beatrice as his wife and a brood of children on the way.

  A home. A family of his own. It was strange how the attraction for such things had grown on him over the last year. Eighteen months ago he would have run screaming from the prospect of a wife and children. Now it was all he wanted out of life.

  Just before noon there was a commotion in the ranks ahead of them. Squinting into the distance, Percy caught sight of a plume of dust rising from the veld. It wasn’t large enough for a column of men, just half a dozen riders riding toward them.

  As they came closer, Sergeant-Major Tofts turned to him with a sniff. “Boers, by the look of them. I’d recognize their slouch hats anywhere.” He patted his own cork hat with a measure of self-satisfaction. “You can always recognize the quality of your opponent by the quality of his headgear.”

  Percy narrowed his eyes against the sun. “What do they think they are doing, riding up to the column of English troops in broad daylight?” Surely the six of them could not be thinking of mounting some kind of resistance. It would be little more than suicide for a handful of lone men to pit themselves against the might of an English regiment.

  The sergeant-major shrugged. His bushy moustache was thick with dust, the same dust that had stuck to the sweat on his face and made him look almost as brown as a Zulu. “Damned if I can read their mind. They’re not Englishmen. They don’t think like we do.”

  The regiment kept on marching as the men approached. The lone riders did not stop until they were directly in the regiment’s path, blocking their way. Awkwardly, the regiment shuffled to a halt.

  “This is Boer land,” the foremost of the riders called. He did not stammer or look intimidated at the might of the English soldiers in front of him. Percy was just forward enough in the column to hear every word carried clearly through the air.

  Lieutenant-Colonel Anstruther, the commander of their regiment, riding at the head of the column, drew himself to his full height and looked down his nose at the shabbily clad riders in front of him. “We are in British territory. I have a right to pass with my men.” He looked, Percy thought, like a turkey cock, pompously gobbling his indignation at being accosted in such a fashion.

  The leader of the Boer party gave a grim smile. Even at this distance, Percy could see the tension in his bearing. Every muscle in his body looked as though it was on high alert, poised for action. “If you advance any further, it will be construed as an act of war.” For all they were a small party of men, it was abundantly clear they were in deadly earnest.

  Anstruther was not impressed by their threats. “I refuse to bow down to the ridiculous demands of a scruffy little would-be militia.”

  “I am warning you, we will take every measure necessary to defend ourselves against what we consider an act of aggression.”


  “I repeat, this is British territory, and I shall travel where I please.”

  “Then the blood of your men will be on your hands.” With that parting shot from their leader, the group of riders wheeled away and rode off.

  Percy watched them carefully as they rode away, the plume of dust that marked their passage disappearing every so often into the hollows of the undulating landscape.

  The veld was not as flat as it appeared at first sight, but marked with small rises and falls, almost unnoticeable to the casual observer.

  Percy had scarcely noticed the dips in the ground as he was walking, but watching the riders disappear and then reappear as they rode away made his belly feel as though he had eaten a plateful of live snakes for breakfast. “If you knew the country well, you could fit a whole regiment alongside the road within firing distance, and no one would suspect a thing,” he muttered uncomfortably to the sergeant-major walking alongside him.

  Even now they could be surrounded by enemies and walking straight into a trap, oblivious of the danger they faced. His instincts were telling him that something was very wrong.

  The sergeant-major caught the direction of his gaze and nodded. “You’re right. I don’t like it any more than you do. The whole thing smells a bit odd to me. I don’t trust them Boers further than I could kick ’em.”

  Sometimes all a soldier had to go on were his instincts. Percy swung on to the back of his horse. Despite the weeping blisters on his own feet, he’d been leading his mare all day to give her foot a rest, but her lameness seemed to have disappeared as quickly as it had developed. Shaking her reins, he encouraged her into a fast trot until he came level with the lieutenant-colonel.

  He saluted his superior officer. “Sir, would you like me and my men to ride ahead as a scouting party? That way we’ll be able to see any trouble that might be out there before the entire regiment is caught up in it.”