Beauty Ashore

An HH3 “Loyalty” story: Horatio is attracted and intrigued by the very beautiful---and very young--- mistress of Black Charlie Hammond. But how does she feel about Horatio? Is there more to her, and indeed, to the irascible Captain Hammond, than meets the eye?

Part 1

Portsmouth, 1803

The heavy brass doorknocker was raised. He was expected. Hornblower glanced up at the glowing first floor windows of the small but elegant row house. Even the air smelled better here than it did near his lodging in Highbury Street. Here, the icy wind carried the fresh scent of salt and new tar, rather than that of old fish and damp woolens.

He hesitated, regretting the pride that had led him to accede to Captain Hammond's demand for an opportunity to recover his losses, and then he cursed the poverty that would not allow him to give Hammond the satisfaction of beating him at whist on that second occasion. No. Poverty was his excuse, wasn't it? Well, now he was paying the price of his vanity, summoned here to collect his winnings like some grocer's boy. He should have told Captain Hammond to keep his money, but then, knowing Hammond, he would likely have incurred a debt of honour, and in truth, while he could at the moment have just afforded to offer the insult, his singular experience with dueling had left him with a distaste for it. And he would have enough on his plate in the coming days without having to further indulge Hammond's rather annoying and senseless caprice.

But it was senseless, too, to be standing on this doorstep, shivering like a wet dog. Best to get it over with. He raised one reddened, ungloved hand to the knocker at the precise moment when the thick, paneled door swung open. A manservant, impeccably groomed and attired in an elegant habit that put Hornblower's shabbiness in the shade, regarded him with a look of inquiry edged with disdain.

"Commander Hornblower," Horatio said, announcing himself with a bit more force than he had meant to. "Captain Hammond is expecting me."

The man stepped to one side, holding the door open. Luxurious warmth greeted him as he stepped inside, his boots sinking silently into the depths of a colourful Chinese rug that ran the length of the well-lit foyer. Hornblower removed his hat in response to the manservant's unspoken demand, and allowed himself to be led up the polished stair.

"Ah, Mr. Hornblower!" Hammond's typically loud, mocking voice greeted him as he entered the small parlor. "Pleased you could join us. Thought you might. Come for your well-earned winnings, have you?"

Hornblower took what satisfaction he could from having the self-awareness to recognize that his hands were wanting to ball themselves into fists and that his jaw was tightening. He willed himself to breathe normally and to stand at ease. A card game was in progress, and to his dismay, he saw that Admiral Pellew was present, along with two other obviously well heeled gentlemen, one in scarlet uniform, the other in bottle green velvet.

"Join us, Mr.Hornblower," called Hammond, rocking back a little in his chair, not bothering to rise. "You gentlemen will no doubt recognize Lieutenant Hornblower from the Long Rooms."

Indeed, Hornblower now saw that he did know Major Fellowes and Mister Robinson, men who typically played for high stakes in the private rooms of the gambling establishment. It did not escape his notice that Hammond had introduced him as "Lieutenant".

"Gentlemen," Hornblower bowed to the others, catching Pellew's eye for a brief moment. The older man rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and gave a barely perceptible shrug.

"Thank you, Captain Hammond. I see you already have a fourth. I shan't intrude."

"It is not whist this evening, Hornblower," said Hammond with a smile. "Only a humble game of Commerce, I fear. No challenge for your intellect and skills of deduction. Sure, I am certain you will not disdain to take a hand in a gentlemanly game of chance?"

He emphasized the word "gentlemanly" in such a way that Hornblower was compelled to consciously loosen his jaw once more. Hammond had a way of getting under his skin, but he knew, for reasons he suspected, but did not fully understand, that he had the same effect on Hammond. He loathed the fact that Hammond was in a position to goad him, and seemed to relish doing just so at any opportunity, but even more he loathed himself for never failing to rise to the bait. And now, once more, he knew he was not about to walk away.

"In that case, naturally, I would be pleased to join you, sir," he said with another bow that he was acutely certain must have appeared stiff and awkward. Stepping forward, he realized to his chagrin that there was not a chair to be had. He looked about fruitlessly for the manservant. After a moment, it was Pellew who began to rise.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Captain Hammond! What sort of a host are you?"

He turned at the sound of a woman's voice, clear and soft and lilting in a way that was only faintly, but unmistakably Irish.

She very young, with a type of classical prettiness he had rarely had the good fortune to look upon. Slender and gracefully proportioned, she looked as perfect as a painting, with skin like cream and a mouth like summer strawberries. Her hair was as dark as his own, arranged artfully in glossy ringlets around her face. She was smiling at him.

"Am I forgetting my manners again, Mary?" Hammond said, his own voice suddenly gentle.

"Forgetting? I rather think not," she replied. "Oh, don't get up again, gentlemen. John!"

The manservant appeared once more and was ordered to bring chairs and two more bottles of port. When he was gone, she turned to Captain Hammond, regarding him pointedly. "Well?"

Clearing his throat, Hammond got to his feet at last with a smile on his face that Hornblower found curiously uncharacteristic-- genuinely amused, a little indulgent. Besotted.

"Forgive me, my dear," said Hammond, coming to stand beside her. His big, rough hand looked remarkably large on her slim waist. "Mary, let me introduce Lieutenant Horatio Hornblower of His Majesty's Navy. Lieutenant Hornblower, this is Miss Mary Hammond."

"I am honoured, Miss Hammond," Horatio bent over the small white hand. The scent of roses and vanilla made his mouth water. Lieutenant. Again. In two days he would take command of "Hotspur" and it was impossible for Hammond not to know it. Annoyed and distracted, his next words found their way out before he might have reconsidered their carelessness, "Your daughter, sir?"

Hammond snorted and Mary smiled again. Horatio, aware he had blundered somehow, blinked and swallowed and wondered. Had Hammond not said, "Miss"? She could not be more than five-and-twenty. Could this extraordinarily young and lovely woman be Black Charlie's wife? Yet surely the man would introduce her as such. Horatio knew *he* would have done---without question and at every possible opportunity.

Without another word, Hammond turned on his heel and started back to the card table. Mary Hammond gave a little laugh and laid her hand on Horatio's arm. "In truth, Mr. Hornblower," she said in a voice just above a whisper, "In the town where I was born, Hammonds are as common as fleas. And I shall decline to tell you just how common are the fleas! Do come and sit, sir."

Bewildered, unenlightened, he allowed himself to be led.

"Come and sit by me, Mamie, dear," said Hammond as fresh cards were produced, and glasses were refilled.

"My love, you know I am hopeless at cards," she said sweetly. Her voice did not have the sound of one who knew what it was to live with fleas. Rather, it had the quality of fine crystal, light and pure and clear.

"Only sit with me a moment," Hammond urged her, taking her small hand in his. "Bring me luck."

"Only for a moment, then. I am certain these gentlemen don't care to be minding their conversations and foregoing their tobacco on their rare occasion of leisure."

There naturally followed a gentlemanly round of hearty denials. All were charmed and honoured by the exquisite company and would not hear of her departure.

Horatio watched the hand being dealt and took a generous swallow of Hammond's excellent port. Above the rim of his glass he caught her eyes as she seated herself opposite. Extraordinary eyes, of the colour he believed was known as hazel. Mossy green, with a halo of brown surrounding a deep, liquid center, and tiny flecks of gold that glittered like treasure at the bottom of the sea.

As Hammond picked up his cards, he whispered something to her, and as she leaned in to hear him Horatio could not stop himself looking at the enticing shadow that fell between the soft swells of her breasts. A little red jewel swung from a delicate golden chain about her long, white throat, catching the candlelight and sparkling like a little dancing fire. He was entranced.

"I am surprised to find you at leisure, Mr. Hornblower," began Pellew. "I should have expected you to be occupied day and night in preparations for your new command."

Hornblower knew he was not being reproved and he gave the Admiral a wry, but appreciative small smile. "Indeed, sir, I shall be. Mr. Bush has made himself indispensable, as one would expect, and "Hotspur" is already well on her way to being fully rigged and provisioned."

"There is still some delay with the ordnance stores, is there not?" inquired Pellew.

"Yes, sir. Apparently there is nothing in the way of nine-pound shot to be had at the moment, but I am assured of its delivery in good time. I am confident we shall set sail the day after tomorrow."

"I have no doubt, Mr. Hornblower," said Pellew with a nod.

"Captain Hammond, surely you were mistaken when you introduced us," the crystalline voice interjected. "Captain Hornblower is a commander!"

"Heh?" Hammond was absently rearranging his hand. "Misspoke myself, did I? Well, it won't be the first time. 'Tis one of the pitfalls and prerogatives of attaining our years, is it not, Sir Edward?"

"Speak for yourself, Captain Hammond," replied Pellew.

"Indeed, how could I forget?" Hammond said to Hornblower. "My nephew Jack is out on a carouse this very night, to celebrate his appointment to your august command, sir. Let us hope he survives it." He chuckled. "Are ye remembering, Edward?"

"Memory does serve, Charlie," said the admiral with an amused twitch of his mouth.

"Well, I believe I knew it all along," said Mary Hammond. "You have that look about you, Mr. Hornblower. My grandmama taught me to read faces, and I do not mean their expressions, but the very bones. It is an ancient practice, and quite an infallible indication of character, and you, sir, have the forehead of an Emperor and the jawbone of a Roman general. You have a look of…destiny."

Her eyes never left his while she spoke and Horatio was transfixed. He saw that her lashes were long and black and doubly thick, the eyelids slightly heavy and drowsy in a way that was strangely provocative.

She looked ready for bed.

Unbelievably, embarrassingly, he felt a stirring in his loins. He flushed to the roots of his hair.

"Destiny!" Pellew stood. "Hear, hear. I shall second that assessment, madam, and may I propose a toast?" He raised his glass. "To Captain Hornblower and the "Hotspur"!"

"Hear, hear!"

Pellew sat. "And if there is anything else you need, Mr. Hornblower, do not hesitate to send word to me. I know the dockyard can be damned parsimonious these days and I'm bloody well not having it. Not for any ship or any man under my command." He looked up quickly, "I do beg your pardon, Miss Hammond."

"Not in the least, Sir Edward," she said. "Nonetheless, I believe I shall take myself off after all. Please, don't get up." She rose, slowly, gracefully. She was looking down at Hammond. As Horatio watched, he saw her draw her fingers gently along the inside of the man's arm in a gesture of intimacy that unexpectedly jerked at his vitals.

"Not too long, my dear," she said softly, and disappeared, with a whisper of silk and a breath of vanilla and roses.

******

Trudging along Highbury Street in blackness and bitter cold, Horatio had at least the satisfaction of knowing he had an extra twenty pounds in his pockets that would provide him with a few luxuries for his ship's stores. A few cases of brandy, perhaps. More coffee. And he still needed clothes. He wondered if there was time. He tried to occupy his thoughts with these things, rather than the fact of Hammond's excusing himself half an hour after Mary had retired.

"Gentlemen," he had said. "I find I have not the appetite for this diversion this evening, but I pray you, stay and enjoy yourselves and take some more of this port." He stood, draining his own glass. "It's a deuced fine vintage, and there's plenty more laid down."

It seemed to Horatio that he was the only one present who did not find this behavior unconscionably rude or unusual. Commerce did not engage his brain, and though he played and won hand after hand, his mind was racing and his body prickling with the knowledge that Hammond had gone to her, and his conscience was screaming that he could not decently stay a moment more.

Reaching his lodging, he found the front door unlocked, and as he let himself in, Horatio looked up to see Maria hurrying down the stairs in her nightdress, candle in hand, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, and an anxious expression on her sweet, plain face.

"Oh, Mr. Hornblower! It's so very late. Is everything well?"

"Maria," he sighed. "You were not waiting for me?"

She stood at the foot of the stair. Her brown curls tumbled from under her dowdy little cap, and her heavy breasts rose and fell with her quick breathing. Her round ripeness was at present not unpleasing, he thought, but it was not difficult to imagine that it would inevitably run to stoutness in a matter of time. Immediately, he felt like an utter cad just for having the thought.

"Mother wanted to lock the door and—" she opened her free hand and held it out to him. "You left without your key."

She had a way of standing very close when she spoke to him, and she was moving close now. Her candle sputtered and she gave little start as a drop of hot wax splashed onto her hand. Instinctively, he put a hand on her arm, and he heard her catch her breath as she looked up into his eyes and he knew with certainty, and not for the first time, that if he wished it, he might take her to bed.

There was certainly an element of temptation, a need, a tension in his body that ached to be released, but he knew that was all it was, and that it had nothing to do with Maria, and everything to do with a remarkable pair of hazel eyes and a voice that sparkled like crystal, and a lovely, graceful body that belonged to another man.

"Maria," he sighed again.

"I worry about you, sir," She was looking up at him with those wet, dark, sorrowful, hopeful eyes. She reached for his hand, turned it up, and placed the iron key reverently on his palm. He closed his fingers, and her hand remained.

"Please don't—" he pulled his hand away without really meaning to do so, and felt a pang of regret as he saw her hurt expression.

"Please don't worry about me, Maria," he said, as gently as he could.

********

"Charlie."

She lay on her side, her head pillowed on one bent arm. The bedclothes were pushed down past her legs, revealing the tempting curves of her body beneath her nightgown of snow-white linen and gossamer lace. She got to her knees as he crossed to the bed and the light from the candle on the windowsill behind her revealed that shadowy temptation even more. In two strides he was beside the bed and he swept her into his arms. She swayed against him, her head falling back, the heavy tumble of dark curls falling over his arms, the long white throat arching to meet the rough caress of his cheek as he buried his face in the sweet curve of her neck.

"God in heaven!" he groaned, kicking his shoes far under the bed. She laughed, and her hands slid inside his coat, pushing it from his shoulders. Turning her head to avoid his kisses, she turned her attention next to waistcoat buttons and neckcloth. Her nimble fingers made fast work of it, in spite of the interfering hands that roamed restlessly over her body and the burning lips covering her face and throat with fiery kisses.

When he was naked, he stood there holding her, looking into her amazing eyes that sparked with golden fire. She laid her palms flat against his broad barrel chest, and moved them slowly over him, her fingers catching slightly in the thick, rough mat of silver hair, over the battled scarred expanse of ridged and puckered flesh while his heart pounded and raced as if it would burst.

"God… Mary," he gasped as the little fingers slid down to the lush growth of hair below his navel and circled the column of manly flesh that rose, hot and hard between them. He let his own hands slide beneath the hem of her nightdress, up along the backs of her velvet smooth thighs to cup her rounded bottom. Then, in one motion, he lifted the nightdress over her head, and as she lowered her arms, he watched her breasts settle gently against her ribs. Sliding his hands beneath them to feel their luscious weight, he lowered his head and rubbed his face in the deep, warm cleft between. Then he pushed her back gently onto the bed.

"Look at this," he laughed, as he lay down beside her. The size and urgency of his erection both astonished and delighted him. "You've got me behaving like a young stallion. Ha!"

"Mmm," she murmured, and smiled softly, touching his cheek, her eyes as radiant as stars.

He moved over her, kissing her pale pink nipples, licking the full undersides of her breasts, worshipping her perfect young body with his touch. She seemed to revel in the roughness of his hair and flesh, moaning and arching into him when he pressed his hands hard into her yielding softness. Leaving her breasts, he rose and brought his mouth down hard on hers. She opened for him, and her soft little tongue flickered against his, stroked the roof of his mouth, swirled sensuously inside him as maddening little moans came from deep in her throat.

His hand swept the silky length of her body and moved slowly up the inside of her thigh. His fingers trailed in the soft curls between her legs, and gently he separated the pliant folds that were warm as fever, moist and swollen with her desire. Finding that little hidden bud of exquisite sensitivity, he began to rub it gently with one big knuckle. He raised himself to look down into her face. Her heavy lidded eyes were closed, and the soft, longing sigh that came from her parted lips made him smile.

"My angel," he whispered, and for the moment, there was no greater pleasure for him than to take his time to pleasure her. She whimpered softly as she wrapped her arms around his back, rolling against him and curling one slender leg about his thigh. He moved on top of her, pressing her down into the big, soft bed, with one knee gently urging her thighs far apart. He braced himself over her, placing the thick, velvety head of his shaft at her entrance.

"Mmm…no…the other way," she pleaded in a low, breathy voice.

He raised himself so that she could turn onto her stomach and push herself up onto her hands and knees. Taking his position behind her, he took her hips in his hands and thrust forward, sheathing himself in her willing flesh with one, swift, sure stroke.

It pleased him that she enjoyed being taken in this way. It thrilled him the way she seemed to welcome the slightly rough, masculine assault, and he loved the feeling of plunging into the very depth of her. He moved his hand around to her front to cup her sex, applying firm, delicious pressure as he drove into her from behind.

Her first climax came swift and sharp and she snapped her head back and gave a little cry. He felt the powerful staccato contractions and he wrapped his arms around her waist, supporting her body, easing her back down onto her tummy as she went pleasantly slack.

He lay lightly on top of her, staying inside. He nuzzled at her ear and neck and stroked her arms, listening to her steadying breath.

In that moment, he knew he would never trade his years for those of a younger man. The great advantage of years was experience, and he knew exactly how to stoke her pleasure, his control was superb, and pacing himself, he knew he could last as long as was needed.

And when he was ready, he slid out of her, and turning her over, flushed and languid, he spread her wide and entered her again. In only moments she was responding to him once more, matching him, rolling her hips with the rhythm of his dance just the way that he, her one and only lover, had taught her.

Could she know how it felt for him to be inside her? Did she understand the redemptive power of her surrender, the way the tenderness that rose in him when he loved her could keep away the blackness and mend the ragged edges of his soul?

She moaned and ground her hips against him. A long shudder at last convulsed her and she pressed her face into his chest, her hands opening and closing, gripping his shoulders. He allowed the incredible sensation of her contracting on him to bring him to his own release. His body racked with the swift, violent pleasure, and a cleansing flood that scoured his bones and left him weak, renewed, and at peace.

Peace. And hope. God, it was a thing he'd scarce remembered. He'd been a man in limbo for so many years. With a wife who, never having been able to make up her mind which was harder for her to bear, his presence, or his absence, had long since left him to return to her kin in Boston, and an only child a score and ten years in the ground. The love he'd had for the career that had once been the only thing he'd ever wanted had turned to disillusionment and bitterness.

A new country, a new life. Love.  It was a mad, desperate hope, but to one who had nearly forgotten, what a thing that was.

*********

She had loved him since she was a child, could hardly remember a time before, but she was under no illusions. She studied the craggy features she cherished, noting the strong nose and chin that indicated boldness and courage, the full cheeks that said generosity and faithful love. But the heaviness of his brow told of discontent and jealous nature.

He lay propped against the pillows, she lying half across his chest, fingers playing idly in the wiry mat of hair.

"So much hair!" she laughed.

"The better to tickle your fancy with, my dear," he said drowsily, sliding his hand slowly down the length of her spine.

"I love the way you tickle my fancy," she said, giving his nipple a little swirl with her tongue. "I love the way you feel on top of me. The weight of you, the hairiness of you against my skin."

"You are a wicked, wayward girl."

"And it is all your fault," she said, biting him.

He wrapped his hand in the tangle of her hair and pulled her head back for a kiss. He was exhausted. Pleasantly so, but exhausted, nonetheless. He should go to sleep now, for if he allowed her to rouse him a second time, he knew he'd feel like death in the morning and he would probably need an afternoon nap. Her youth, her response to his lovemaking, her growing passion, were as intoxicating to him as champagne, and he desired her day and night. He took her, expecting lust to lessen with familiarity and repetition and found that he only wanted her more.

"I am a fool, Mary. There can be no bigger fool than an old man with a young love. It is the oldest of jests, is it not?"

"We cannot help whom we love, Charlie." Her beautiful face, in the aftermath of love, was heartbreaking. "Or when we love them."

"That is what the young always believe," he said, wrapping her in his arms. "If I'm not careful you'll be the death of me, darling girl."

She lay against his chest and felt a softening of his body and a change in his breathing and knew that he had fallen asleep. He would do that; simply drop off to sleep after making love.

"You're all I have in this world, Charlie Hammond," she whispered to the dark. "But God forgive me, I'd sooner you did die in my bed tonight than for you to leave me to do this foolish, useless thing."

Go to Part Two