General Wilkinson was out of the question; he’d never trust the British, even someone formerly British, to be his eyes and ears before he put his own invasion scheme in play. There were secret, but widely known whispers of a British move against the hapless Spanish. Though Ellison doubted an expedition could make it all the way down the Mississippi quietly, past American settlements on the eastern bank.
It made more sense to launch it from Jamaica, overwhelm the few defenders in a few brisk, brutal days’ combat, and take New Orleans as the main prize. Without the city, Louisiana was useless anyway, Jim Hawk had long before realised.
Or Willoughby could’ve been hired by Virginia, South Carolina, or Georgia, and was here as part of a sectional land-grab. There were already secret agents aplenty in the town from those governments, he had been warned. Yet he’d come on a Spanish-flagged, British-owned ship, in the guise of a bootless adventurer?
Ellison had spent half the night dashing from one oddity to the next, from watcher to watcher to hear their reports, and was, in the backcountry vernacular, “‘bout plumb tuckered out.” Even more outré was what happened in the alley behind the Maurepas bank, as sack after sack of money had been spirited out the door into a couple of farm waggons, surrounded by a gang of heavily armed men, as piratical a crew of cut-throats as ever he did see! And what was that about, Ellison wondered, a bold midnight robbery?
He’d been tempted to whistle up his own lads and try to rob the robbers! A sudden flood of money could, when delivered to Congress, be the funds to pay for America’s fore-ordained growth. The United States Government was mighty “skint,” still paying for the Revolution years after their independence had been won. With enough money, they would not have to wait for a more assertive President in office, but…
At least Ellison had sicced one of his better men on the trail of those waggons, to see where they’d gone. That had been the best he could do, since most of his others had been let go for the rest of the night and were mostly “drunk as Cootie Brown” by then.
And there went a shot at a little personal profit, too; profit beyond the promised reward for his covert service, which he doubted if Congress could actually pay. There was land he craved, in the Powell’s Valley of East Tennessee, among good people he’d come to know, like the McLeans and Bowmans… good neighbours, with a few pretty daughters to choose from, did he ever have a chance to put down roots and marry.
Jim Hawk Ellison drew a quid of tobacco from a pocket and cut a chew off. He’d prefer his pipe, but that was impossible if he didn’t wish to betray his vigil.
“Damn you, Willoughby,” he whispered, eying the candle’s glow enviously. “Whatever you’re up to, you’re costin’ me sleep. Even if ye are a God-cursed Sodomite, you can lay down on th’ job!”
“Mmm… mon amour formidable,” Charité coo-muttered, draped delightfully light, incredibly smooth and baby-soft half atop him as Lewrie billowed the sheet high above them to float downwards, creating a cooling zephyr. “Alain, mon coeur,” she added with a sleepily sated smile as she shifted her lazy embrace.
“Charité, ma petite biche,” Lewrie answered in kind, chuckling deep in his throat, recalling endearments he hadn’t used since Phoebe Aretino, his Mediterranean mistress. He was pretty sure he had just called her a “little doe.” And Charité was certainly that.
Only four inches above five feet without her boots, with slim hips and the wee-est little bottom, the faintest wisps of pale blond fluff below her knees, above her quim, and beneath her arms, a narrow waist that gently tapered inward above the talc-smooth swell of her hips; narrow shoulders and slim arms, but with the most heavenly, perfect breasts ever he did see, or kiss, or suckle, or lick, with darker tan areolae and cunningly puckering square nipples to worship as well.
With her hair unpinned in the privacy of his rooms, a positive flood of chestnut hair spilled down her back to her waist and now lay like a light blanket over both of them.
They had shared two bottles of champagne whilst she’d taught him Bouré, which had surprisingly resembled Ecarte, with antes tossed out first. Five cards each, dealer announcing trumps, but before any play, one could discard or fold completely, build one’s hand with the replacement cards, then follow the leader’s play in the proper suit or trump with a higher card, or over-trump with a higher card of another suit, thereby taking tricks. The second dealing and the discards, she told him, were similar to that rube-ish Yankee Doodle derivative that they called Poker or Poquet, not “Poke Her” as Lewrie had imagined he had heard it. Two other young Creole gentlemen had joined them, once Lewrie had picked up the game, introduced as the Darbone brothers, the older one as Claude, the younger as Baltasar.
“Pardon, messieurs,” Lewrie had taken note, “but you and, ah… Armand bear a striking resemblance.”
“Most Creoles do,” the elder brother Claude had replied with a smirk. “Light-coloured eyes and chestnut hair… many from Normandy arrived first in Louisiana, before the Acadians or the Spanish. And we do marry back and forth, n’est-ce pas? Armand, your mustachio’s slipping again. Fais attention!” he’d sing-songed, as if they and she were long familiar with each other’s company in the Pigeon Coop; this had set Lewrie’s sudden possessive “teeth” all ataunt-to, jealous even before having her.
He’d lost fourty Spanish silver dollars at Bouré, and that was at small-to-middling stakes, the lion’s share to Charité, or “Armand.” At five British shillings to the dollar, that was only ten pounds, at least—nowhere near “gambling deep,” and a cheap lesson at the price. And the Darbone brothers had bought two other bottles.
And once the last “bubbly” had been poured and drunk, Charité had bid them a firm, no-more-gambling goodnight and had requested a gentleman to see her safely home. And though the Darbones seemed to grumble over that more than a bit, they had stood aside as Lewrie had seen her out to the street and round the corner towards Bourbon Street and his pension. Once in the relative anonymity of the dark streets, she had flung herself into his arms.
Admittedly, Lewrie had taken a callous, common moment or two to grope her like a sack of grain, to discover if he’d been gulled again, intensely relieved to reach inside her open shirt and determine that she definitely was a girl, and not a lying set of laundry items, that there was no “wedding tackle” artfully tucked away somewhere. It was only then that he committed himself to a kiss, then they were off to the races, barely able to stay clad as they jog-trotted breathlessly to his appartement and dashed upstairs past the scandalised concierge.
“Vous comprenez, cher Alain,” Charité had seriously insisted, even as she was slinging coat, waist-coat, and cravat to the wide, and hop-tugging to get a boot off, “this does not mean a commitment of any sort between us.”
“Completely!” Lewrie had most happily barked back, shedding his garments in fervent flurry. “None offered on my part, and damn’ thoughtful of ye t’mention it! I say, ma chérie … take a pew on the settee, and I’ll have those boots off quick as a wink!”
Giggling, guffawing, tugging first from the front, then turned away from her with her boot ’twixt his legs, her other foot shoving in the middle of his back, or the cleft of his buttocks; and then Lewrie attended to her trousers, her ankles on his shoulders, and she laughing and squirming as delighted as an infant tickled mid-bath, a bold, hearty laugh not usually heard from genteel young ladies.
All but one candle snuffed, the amber shadows and flickers of light gilding them, Charité stood and slowly lifted the long hem of her lace-ruffled shirt, performing for him as he sat to wrestle out of his boots, and he was struck dumb, completely entranced, for the girl looked him right in the eyes as she did so, her coltish young thighs almost chastely crossed at the same time, and her laughter turned much softer and huskier, as if it was a dare.
“Oh… that,” Charité said with a sheepish expression when she unstrapped the sheath of her poignard from her left forearm and tossed it into a far dark corner of the sitting area.
>
“And, oh… this ’un,” Lewrie echoed, unbuttoning his cuffs and pushing up his left sleeve to expose his own sheathed krees, removing it and tossing it to join hers in the corner.
Completely nude, as perfect as a young Venus on the half-shell, she knelt to help him take off his boots, only pretending to struggle with the right one so she could turn about and present her delightful wee derrière, then chuckle deep in her chest as Lewrie “helped out,” bracing a bare left foot on her mounds and enticing Venus Dimples and wriggling his toes.
Finally barefooted, he stood to peel his shirt upwards and off, but she knelt again and unpinned her hair to let it fall like a glossy silk avalanche, spilling down her back and over her breasts. She shook her mane to free it all, then swept it forward like a stage curtain as she scooted forward on her knees to press her face into his groin, and Lewrie gave out a groan of instant pleasure as soft, sweet lips were put to his straining member, as dainty little fingers gently took his measure and tickled feathery-soft down the shaft.
He tossed his shirt away and lowered his hands to her shoulders as Charité made yummy-good appreciative moaning sounds and whispered, “Oh, la grosse verge, cher Alain! Si grande et dure. Si ardente pour moi? “
Big… hard… eager for her? “Bloody right!” he exclaimed as he flung back his head and shut his eyes, lost to her tantalising ministrations. He felt like he sported a marlingspike, a belaying pin, and if he didn’t top her that very instant, his heads would explode—both of them! And where did a girl that fine learn that? Lewrie wondered in a brief moment of concern, one that quickly passed. Was she so experienced, so widely ploughed, that he’d need to dig into his valise for a sheepskin cundum?
Before he did burst like a 12-pounder, he drew her up and away from his groin, got her to her feet, swept that concealing hair behind her shoulders and embraced her, savouring how smooth, soft, and wee she was as she eagerly pressed against him, lifting her arms about his neck and silently urging him to lift her off her straining toes.
She was not quite as light as the elfin Phoebe Aretino that he remembered, but he had no trouble hefting her up, her face level with his, to support her bottom with his hands, and slowly walk towards the bedstead as she rained kisses on him, now making faint, kitteny whimpering sounds. He sat her on the high edge of the bedstead, her legs scissored about his waist, and began to reward her, kiss for hot, wet kiss, slowly roaming to her eyes, her ears, down each side of her neck, then to her breasts.
Charité leaned back on the palms of her hands, luring him to a matching lean forward, her head thrown back and her mane beginning to whip and toss with each pleasured roll of her head, her hips starting a slow, metronomic sweep from left to right and back again, supporting herself on her hands and the strength of her legs, beginning to thrust and recede, even squirming impatiently to snare his prick and lure it in, and Lewrie squirmed as well to lower his member, now stoutly upjutting as a jib boom, to meet her. Quim and cock met at last, darker wrinkly nether lips gently parted as the head slid so easily into her, one heavenly inch, as if dipped into a brazier-warmed pot of honey…
“Oooh… Alain!” she whimpered, freezing in place. “Mon Dieu, le préservatif, ‘l’anglais,’ please? The… protection?”
“Arrr!” he good-naturedly groaned, a single second of madness away from spearing her to the root. But he turned away and went to his valise. Spare shirt and hunting shirt went flying, as did rolled stockings, a clean, pressed neck-stock, and spare underdrawers, flung upwards without a care to where they landed, as if he was a highwayman rifling a coach passenger’s bags for hidden jewels.
He heard her softly tinkling laughter and turned. She’d rolled over on her stomach and was peeking between the bedstead curtains in full amusement, chin resting on her forearms crossed atop the massive mahogany footboard. Lewrie shrugged and grinned back at her, at last found his cundum packet and unbound the tied ribbons to lift the flap and pull out a whole handful, showing them to her before returning to the side of the bed.
By then, Charité had rolled back to the bedside, quickly, eagerly posing herself. Her hands grasped the upper canopy railing and, half standing on the short assisting ladder with one dainty foot, and with her other slim leg resting on the mattress, thighs far apart, she pretended to swing slightly, almost childlike, as she watched in wide-eyed wonder to see him sheath himself and bind a cundum on. Once done, her welcoming, warming, growing smile was all the invitation he needed.
He embraced her about her thighs, pressing his face against the soft-fleshed and fragrant warmth of her firm, flat stomach, kissing up to her breasts again to restore his slightly cooled ardour, squeezing gently at her bottom; kissing slowly downwards over her belly that was almost shuddering, quivering under his lips and the tip of his tongue.
Sliding over and sitting down where she’d been when he left her, Charité leaned back on her hands again, parted her sweet thighs, lifted her knees, and resumed the left-right squirming of her hips, and the upward, forward hungry thrusting of her groin, as steady and gentle as waves breaking at a slack tide.
“Mon Dieu, please! Maintenant … now, cher! I can’t take any more!” Charité huskily begged, clawing him upwards, sliding her body to the very edge of the high bedside, then embracing him in a death grip as frantic as someone about to drown. Lewrie rose, stepped up, dragged her to him with one hand at the base of her spine, and guided himself back to the pleasure seat. Succulently hot nether lips, slick and engorged… that first inch into Paradise swiftly, even more easily regained… both of his hands seizing her hips and another, short half step to the bedside, gliding in, gliding upward… half his manhood all at one steady, gentle thrust… an inch more, then one more… drawing back and hearing her sob in shuddering want… then all of him, ramming himself home, eliciting a startled shout as he felt his cap bumping against the sea-bed of her depths, sunk to the root, and she clung to him desperately, legs clasped high around him, ankles crossed on the back of his hips and demanding, quickening his pace. Head and long, glossy hair tossing and turning, she whined and groaned, whimpered, and laid her head on his shoulder for a little time, softly bawling like a newborn calf, a trickle of saliva from her gasping, panting mouth on his skin…
“Je vais jouir!” Charité cried at last, “I am going… aahhh.” A baby shriek, a broken, quivering-whimpering sudden sinking away, arms and thighs turning flaccid and limp, though her quim pulsed, squeezed and suctioned like a Chinee finger-puzzle, as if to draw all of him in and keep him secreted forever, and for a few, floating moments of absolute ecstacy, nothing else in the universe existed for him but their groins, his shaft, her gulf. Even the sounds she made, the endearments she grunted, receded, and all he could hear, cared to hear, was the hot, sweet liquid sound of sex before his own moment arrived. A long, inarticulate deep-voiced lion’s roar, and he burst so deep into her, losing all cognizance, a siege-mortar’s shell exploding, trails of violent smoke spreading outward, outward behind the red-glowing jutting embers of his passion. And his arriving restored her strength for a few minutes, to clamp damply sweet thighs and arms about him, force-squeeze her belly muscles to match the last upward jerkings he used to tease her, fiercely clinging, kissing, and stroking in pleased reward.
She fell back onto the soft, yielding feather mattress finally, one arm over her eyes to get her breath back, legs wide apart as if to wish him gone from her, but Charité needily moaned in limp protest when he finally shrank away and withdrew. He stripped off his used cundum and clambered up into bed with her, scooped her to him, and pressed his length along hers, gently nestling her close, and both of them all but purring in delight.
“Fantastic,” he whispered into her ear, drawing forth her happy chuckles and fondly closer pressing, her head on his chest. “Charité, darlin’, you are simply marvelous. So sweet, so handsome…”
“I please you?” she asked, almost hesitantly, her head averted, as if fearing he hadn’t been.
“Two steps past Sain
t Peter’s gate into Heaven itself,” Lewrie truthfully avowed. “You’re a little peek of Paradise, chérie.”
“You do not ask if you …” Charité said, sounding small and meek as she turned her head from one cheek to the other to peer up at him.
“Sort of got the, ah… impression that I did,” Lewrie teasingly muttered back, giving her a warm squeeze, a cozy jounce. She slow-blinked her eyes and nodded her recumbent head, then the most beatific smile slowly blossomed on her face, a longtime, committed lover’s expression that told him all. She slid up his body ’til they were face to face, draping herself on him, one sticky-damp thigh slyly insinuated between his as she said, “Oui, très bon, aussi … you did. You will, encore. Or should I go now, and let you sleep?”
“Sweet little dear’un!” Lewrie protested, holding her tighter. “Cundums in London came by the dozen! One down, eleven to go…?”
“Hah!” she cried in bawdy delight, laughing with joy. “You are that formidable? Then as our backcountry ‘Cadiens say, ‘laisser les bons temps rouler’!”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
And the “bons temps” did, far into the night.
Charité entranced him, amazed him with her eagerness, even stunned him a few times with her expertise. One moment she was as sweet, loving, and fond as a blushing new bride, purring like a cat with half-slit sleepy eyes. The next moment she could be as fierce in her ardour at kissing and foreplay as a milkmaid, a Jill, tearing at her Jack with only five minutes to spare in the dairy barn’s loft.
The Captain's Vengeance Page 19