A Glitch in Time

by April Hill

  "Aye, Cap'n Muldoon," Barker responded, leering at me with his one bulging eye. "And what if I was to have myself a good poke under them fancy bloomers o' hers while I'm keepin' watch o'er her?"

  It dawned on me then; I was in the hands of the notorious pirate of whom we had been warned–Black Tim Muldoon and his evil band of cutthroats.

  The captain shrugged his broad shoulders. "Aye. Have your way with the poppet, if you will, but try to not wear her out, and leave a bit of her for your mates, if you would. They've been a long time at sea, and will all favor a dainty bit of ass from a well-practiced wench like this one. I'll not complain, so long as she's not used too hard, and still brings a good price at ransom or auction. Now, we'll be off to find Dunwiddie. It's that proper young gentleman I'm most anxious to see, not one the fop's whores, no matter how bonny and buxom she be."

  He looked at me again, and smiled wickedly. "Still, I'll have to say one thing for our friend, young Dunwiddie. He may be a thief and a fop and a fool, but he's as good a hand at spanking a pretty bottom as any I've seen–and yours, my lovely, is as charming a well-spanked bottom as I've seen in many a year." With that, he reached down and squeezed the bottom in question–my own.

  "Ah, yes, poppet, it's true. As we lay in wait on yon balcony, we were all of us fortunate enough to witness your delicate ass being soundly warmed by young Dunwiddie. I must confess that even if your lover has managed to escape us this time, the spectacle of your bared buttocks squirming under such a robust hairbrushing was well worth a foray ashore. Alas, I shall now be forced to thank the treacherous thief just before I string him up by his scrawny, larcenous neck."

  Then, after a lascivious wink in my direction, he disappeared through the open door followed by three of his men. Until that instant, I hadn't fully understood what was happening. The villain Muldoon had mistaken my poor Edward for the younger Mr.Dunwiddie–the fop and filthy leech he now intended to hang. And he had mistaken me for the filthy leech's "poppet"– and his whore.

  "Wait," I cried after him. "You have mistaken us for someone else. Please listen to..." Before the words had cleared my lips, though, the burly thug Barker had grabbed me roughly and put his filthy hand over my mouth. Enraged, I took a deep breath, made a tight fist, pulled back my arm and slammed my fist into his one good eye with as much force as I possibly could. Then, before he could recover, I lifted my skirts (or Mrs. Dunwiddie's skirts) to my knees and made a headlong dash for the open door. He gave chase, stumbling after me with both hands holding his injured eye and bellowing a number of colorful suggestions about what would happen when he caught me. But I am not so easily caught as that–certainly not when facing the prospect of being serially ravished, buggered, and disemboweled. I had cleared the hallway and was halfway down the wide marble staircase before my oafish, half-blind pursuer had even reached the door.

  Edward was nowhere in sight, nor was Mr. Johnson, nor any other member of the Dunwiddie household, and I could only assume that they were all in hiding. I could hear Muldoon and his men stomping about the enormous house, and I was fairly certain that they had already searched this area. I rushed through the great hall into the kitchen, and quickly assessed the room's possibilities for concealment. I noticed a curtain slightly askew in the far corner behind the stove–a pantry perhaps–but discovered a small door, instead. I flung it open, hoping that I had found an exit to the gardens beyond. To my dismay, it was nothing but a tiny, cluttered storeroom.

  The storeroom was a poor hiding place at best, and appeared to be a servants' closet, musty and damp and full of soiled and shabby clothing. But I pushed inside, grateful at this juncture for any refuge. Relieved, and in the belief that I was in no present danger of being overheard by a disapproving husband, I allowed myself the luxury of several strong oaths. (Edward dislikes my using profanity, and frequently shows his displeasure by instantly baring and soundly spanking my irreverent bottom with whatever implement of penance is at hand at the moment of offense. When he is being especially difficult, even the careless use of an innocuous "hell" or "damn" can result in a matched set of well-blistered buttocks and a half hour facing a wall with my drawers drooping about my repentant ankles.)

  "Shit," I murmured, as loudly as seemed prudent. "What sort of damned pisshole is this?"

  Suddenly, a hand was clapped over my mouth, and someone dragged me backward, deeper into the tiny closet. When I struggled to turn around, the same someone hissed in my ear. "Be quiet, for God's sake. They may be just outside the damned door."

  Edward! My heart leapt with joy and relief as Edward pulled me closer, kissed me, and then held me tightly for a long moment.

  "Are you all right, darling?" he whispered, kissing me once again.

  I nodded, clinging to him with all my strength. "I'm quite all right, Edward, but we must get out of this place quickly. These men are not merely thieves. They are the pirate Muldoon and his crew!" I leaned closer to whisper to him. "They've come looking for a person by the name of Algernon Dunwiddie–the son of our hostess, I believe, and they do not appear to like him, at all."

  "Yes," Edward sighed. "The servant who brought us here–Johnson? He explained to me at breakfast that the younger Dunwiddie–this Algernon fellow–is owner of this plantation, and is expected to arrive here today, to meet with Lord Anthony regarding some very important business matter."

  "What sort of business?" I inquired. "Sugar cane?"

  "No, my love. It appears that Mr. Dunwiddie is in the slave trade, among his other detestable enterprises. Lord Anthony provides the ships, and Algernon supplies the hapless men and women. Johnson wasn't in the least embarrassed to describe to me how the 'young master' and Lord Anthony assemble the 'most likely wares' here and then transport those 'wares' under the vilest imaginable conditions to the colonies. And thanks to you, my love, Mr. Johnson is under the mistaken impression that I am this absent Lord Anthony, and that you are my esteemed wife, which leaves us both in a bit of a pickle should our host arrive here before we take our leave."

  "How horrible," I cried. "But what has a pirate like Timothy Muldoon to do with any of this? Is he a partner in this awful enterprise?"

  Edward shook his head. "Perhaps, and perhaps Black Tim hasn't received his fair share of the monies. In any case, Mr. Dunwiddie appears to have been delayed and may have escaped Muldoon's wrath–for now. Meanwhile, you and I must try to get back to the machine. Better to wait for its solar cells to recharge in the jungle than here."

  "Oh, dear," I said with a deep sigh. " How do we mange to get into these things?"

  From the annoyed expression on Edward's face, I knew that if silence had not been imperative, he would have happily pulled down my pretty, borrowed pantalets and administered–right then and there–his second spanking of the day to my already very sore bottom. As he always does, Edward had chosen to blame me for our present situation. But this time, I had to admit that he was right. It was I that had insisted upon stealing the coach, and upon "borrowing" Lady Margaret's fine clothing and her identity. When the spanking finally arrived, as I knew it would, it might just prove to be a spanking of truly epic proportions, an event I would try to accept without complaint. But now, I had to advise Edward out of yet another mess.

  "I have even worse news than yours, Edward, dear. We are in an even more serious pickle than you think, I'm afraid. Timothy Muldoon appears to believe that you are Algernon Dunwiddie, and that I am your… his… lady-friend. It is Muldoon's very firm wish to hang you, and to auction me off to the highest bidder."

  "Hang me!" Edward cried, completely ignoring my impending fate. "Why on Earth would he want to do that?"

  "I don't know," I said indignantly. "Some nonsense about your being a filthy leech and a thief–a case of the pot calling the kettle black, if I ever heard one. Why would wealthy landowners and despicable slave traders like the Dunwiddies need to steal anything from a pirate with a price on his head?"

  "I have no idea, but we must find this Timothy Muldoon imme
diately, and clear up the misunderstanding," Edward declared.

  I rolled my eyes. "Let me understand this, Edward. Your intention is to attempt to persuade a murderous, bloodthirsty pirate bent on hanging you, ravishing me, and doing God only knows what else to both of us, that we are not who he thinks, but simply are lost wayfarers from several centuries in the future, who dropped from the sky in a machine and then contrived to be at this precise moment in Mr. Algernon Dunwiddie's house, in his bed, and dressed in Mr. Dunwiddie's and his mother's clothing?"

  Apparently, my logic struck home, and Edward thought better of his first plan. "All right, then, Abigail, what we need to do is to get away from here as quickly as possible–and without being caught."

  My husband is astonishing, is he not? To devise a simple, brilliant plan like that–all by himself?

  Between us, we came up with a third plan.

  * * * *

  It never fails to amaze me why it is that in all of Edward's and my adventures together, I am consistently the one who ends up dressed as a fool, but before we let the storeroom, it had happened again. When the pirates finally abandoned their search and departed the Dunwiddie estate, we left as well. But not before Edward had disguised me as a ragged boy–a servant, presumably–whereas he left the house outfitted as a prosperous merchant.

  "Because," Edward explained patiently, when I inquired a bit sullenly about my costume, "these are the only articles of clothing I was able to find in that damned closet. Now, stop whining, Abigail, and keep walking. If we are very lucky, we may be able to find our way back to the machine by tomorrow morning." As we talked, we were trudging along the hot and dusty road that led from the Dunwiddie plantation to the distant spot in the jungle where we had concealed the Time Machine. In our present garb, Edward assured me, we would be taken as nothing more than nondescript locals on an errand.

  As is so often the case, Edward was completely wrong. We had gone no further than two miles when we noticed a wooden cart in the narrow roadway, blocking our path. When we attempted to go around the obstacle, two men appeared suddenly from the woods, both armed with pistols and both having the distinct look of pirates–on an errand of their own, perhaps. Although neither of these two men was familiar, I had developed by this time a certain astuteness at recognizing those bent on ravishing and/or murdering me.

  "Yer name," the stouter of the two brigands demanded.

  "Percy Jenkins," Edward replied calmly, "merchant, and this is my apprentice, Gerald."

  The two men conferred in whispers, then came closer and looked us over more carefully. "And what nature of business is it yer in, Mr. Jenkins?"

  "Tinware," Edward said. "I keep a small shop in the village."

  "The one on Hart Street, is it, now? This here shop of yers?"

  Edward paused, wary of the trap. "No, not that shop. Another."

  The stout man smiled with what few teeth he had. "Well, if that's the way it is, then, Mister Jenkins, sir, you'll not be mindin' if we was to ask you to turn out your pockets, would you?"

  "I'm not a rich man, gentlemen," Edward protested. "I have no money on my person. Nor does my helper, here."

  Before Edward could move away, the two men had taken both his arms and forced him to his stomach in the dirt. When I tried to interfere, the skinny one struck me a sharp blow across the chin, knocking me to the ground, as well. Moments later, the stout man chortled heartily and pulled forth from Edward's pocket the small bag of coins given us by our friend Wild Bill Hickock at our last stop, just before we left Deadwood.

  "No money on ye', is it? Well, now, I'd be callin' that a boldface lie, Mr. Jenkins, and right peculiar coins they is, at that. I've never seen the like of 'em, that's for sure, and I've took coin from many a gentleman's pocket, as you might imagine. It seems we're in need of us an expert, and there's no man alive more expert about coin than our employer–Cap'n Tim Muldoon."

  Edward and I exchanged glances, and my heart sank–out of the frying pan and directly into the fire. The stout pirate thrust the muzzle of a pistol in my back, and the skinny one did the same to Edward.

  "We'll see what Tim has to say about all this, Mr. Jenkins," the stout one said. "He's aboard the Prodigal as we speak and ready to set to sea."

  I groaned. A sea voyage was not at all what I wanted right now. I wanted badly to go home.

  We were bundled quickly away, off the road and down a twisting beach pathway that led through the rocks to a small cove and a waiting longboat. Edward's hands had been bound, but I was free, and I struggled, kicked and bit with all my might until one of the pirates turned and stuck the pistol close up against Edward's temple.

  "Another kick to me balls, boy, and I'll be blowin' yer master's brains all over the lot of us. Get in the damn boat. I'm hopin' that hunk you bit off me was right tasty. When we get aboard, I'll be the fella' grinnin' from ear to ear while the boson yanks down them britches o' yers and dumps you over a barrel. Then we'll see how much you fancy a good long taste of that wicked strap o' his while he's layin' it across yer bare ass time and agin, 'til yer sure its on bloody fire."

  I gulped.

  The two pirates rowed silently, and a few minutes later, we rounded a wooded point, and a ship came in sight–quite a beautiful ship, and even in my present nervous state, I allowed a sound of delight to escape my lips at my first sight of it.

  "Aye, the Prodigal's a proper beauty, fer sure," the stout pirate said. "Yer not the first landlubber to be thinkin' it."

  "I was thinking no such thing," I cried. "I was thinking that it's a villainous ship–full of criminals and murderers."

  Edward glared at me. "Shut up… Gerald. We're in quite enough trouble, already."

  The pirate chortled. "Yer master's right, boy. Ye'd best not be badmouthin' the Prodigal in Tim's hearin'. He'll take that strap to yer insultin' young ass hisself, and do a right proper job of it, too. Flay the skin off yer butt, and then topmast ye, besides. Ye'll sit up there on yer flamin' raw ass and puke yer guts out 'til ye can't puke no more."

  When I opened my mouth to express my opinion of that sort of brutality, Edward glared at me again with the sort of look that said he might enjoy watching the event himself. I had collected several demerits in the last few days, and should we live through this, I fully expected to collect the penalty, as well. Edward is not one to take into consideration too many extenuating circumstances. The stout pirate assured my continuing silence by stuffing a filthy rag in my mouth and securing it with a length of cord.

  We boarded the ship by a rope ladder at the stern and were greeted at the railing by Timothy Muldoon himself. "Ah, Master Dunwiddie, we meet again."

  "I am not Algernon Dunwiddie, Captain," Edward began. "I am..."

  Muldoon cut him off. "Take him below and bind him well. I'll talk first to the boy."

  Try as I might, I couldn't say a word to Edward as he was dragged away. Only our eyes met, and I began to cry.

  "And what have we here?" Muldoon inquired, touching the tears on my cheek. He walked slowly around me, as though he had never before seen anything of exactly my sort. "Simple devotion to an employer, my lad, or is it that your taste runs to men, rather than the gentler sex? No matter. Pirates are an open-minded lot, unlike the navies of all lands, it seems, where I understand that buggery is a hanging offense." He poked at me here and there with one finger, and smiled.

  "The next question is, have we before us a peculiarly unmuscular male specimen then, or could it be a clever female in disguise, affecting this costume in a rather poor effort to conceal from our attention what charms she may have?" He reached out, removed my hat and smiled as my hair tumbled around my shoulders. "Upon my word, gentlemen. Unless my eyes deceive me, this is the very same young woman we encountered this morning at the exquisite home of the fop, Mr. Algernon Dunwiddie. Which means, I take it, that the fellow we have in irons below is indeed the gentleman himself."

  I mumbled desperately, trying to explain about Edward and the assorted mistaken
identities through my gag, but Muldoon was much too busy tormenting me at the moment to worry about poor Edward. Edward's torment was to come later, apparently.

  "What baffles me, though," Muldoon continued, "is how the fop had the balls to administer that excellent whipping we witnessed. I have heard it suggested that Algernon is the sort whose tastes run to being soundly spanked, as opposed to having the disobedient lady across his own knee. And this lady was spanked, as I recall, well and truly spanked, with more than average vigor. I wonder. What on Earth could you have done, madam, to warrant such a hearty thrashing? The gentleman–whoever he was–appeared… how shall I describe it? Eager? Yes, eager to leave your unfortunate bottom aflame. I must remember to compliment his methods, before I hang him. I see myself as something of an expert, yet I have rarely witnessed a better use of a hairbrush–hard enough to make a wench scream, and yet leave her without bruises. Or did he? Perhaps we should have a look, then?" He reached down and pinched my backside, and I yelped in pain–as well as I could yelp through my gag.

  "Of course," he continued, "there are those women who actually enjoy a hearty taste of the strap or the cane, or even the more childish hairbrush. These ladies are generally English. You are English, are you not, madam? If so, I believe you have fallen into excellent hands. In the past, I have occasionally enjoyed the company of such women, and found that administering what they wished for was a bit tiring, done properly, but quite relaxing. And afterward, the ladies' passions seemed… What shall I say? Inflamed? Quite as inflamed as their freshly scorched bottoms, in every instance. Tell me, my dear? Are you that sort of woman?" He reached over and pulled off my gag.

  "I most certainly am not that sort of woman, sir," I exclaimed. "I am a married woman, and the poor man you have imprisoned is not Algernon Dunwiddie, but my own dear husband, Edward. I am quite prepared to throw myself into the sea before I permit myself to be treated so ignominiously as you suggest. Have you no honor as a gentleman? Would you see your own wife so violated and dishonored?"