Part 4

Ireland 1801

In the matter of the death of Daniel Hammond, the court of inquiry found that Captain the Honourable Herriot Malmquist, of the Queen's Own 7th Light Dragoons had acted properly in accordance with His Majesty's laws in the aid of the civil power.

Charlie had expected nothing else, of course. As a King's officer he knew full well that the uncompromising letter of the law was the very bedrock upon which Britain's might was founded. As a naval captain there had been many a time when he had been compelled to act as the instrument of that law. Discipline would brook no dissent and no mercy, and justice, in her blindness, would not be blamed.

"What will you do?" he asked Mary. They were alone in the parlor of Daniel's small, comfortable house, a house that to Charlie had always seemed enviably rich with warmth and love, even when it had come down to just Mary and Daniel and the few servants still living there. An hour ago the last of the mourners had gone, so many people, the simple and the wellborn, who had come to pay their respect to a beloved doctor, neighbor, and friend. Now the place seemed truly bereft, empty and cold.

She stood by the fireplace, her back to him. She turned to him when he spoke, her face ashen, but painfully lovely, the eyes enormous and uncomprehending.

"The house is mine, now," she said.

She looked so young, so pale. The gown she wore was not black, but of a dark, pewter grey wool, so finely woven as to have a sheen of silk to it. It reminded him of the color of the sea in a storm, and strangely, it became her, accentuating her white skin and dark hair, and the luminosity of her eyes, wide and shining with grief. All he wanted to do was hold her, to enfold her in his arms, but he resisted, because he knew his impulse was born of something other than a simple wish to comfort and protect a heartbroken child. God help him, but he wanted to crush that ripe, slender body against him and feel her yield to him. He would turn her face up to his and kiss that trembling red mouth. He let go a breath as he tried to expunge from his brain the imagined sensation of slick heat, of plunging his tongue between those perfect lips.

"My brother John has asked that you come to Kilcrea," he said. "You would be welcome there. The boys are nearly all grown, and he and Bess would be more than glad of the company. Bessie has always wanted a daughter, you know. I imagine the poor dear is already beside herself with the notion of planning your first Dublin Season."

He tried to smile. Indeed, her future was not without promise. She now possessed a small inheritance, but any fool could see that her greatest wealth was her beauty. With the right introductions, and the sort of careful management Elizabeth Hammond was certainly capable of, Mary might do very well in the marriage mart. Perhaps it should not have surprised him, but the violent reaction in his gut to the very thought took him unaware, as if he'd been struck by a blast of grapeshot. Instantly, he wanted to put a bullet through the heart of that shadowy suitor his mind had conjured, of any other man who might think to claim her for his own.

"That is very kind of the Hammonds," Mary said, stooping gracefully to sweep into her hands a scattering of rose petals that had fallen from the arrangement atop the fireplace mantle. "But I cannot accept. Daniel was the father of my heart, but they are not my kin, not really, and I could not in good conscience impose myself. And it is not necessary. I have enough to keep me, Charlie, truly, all will be well."

"You can't stay here," he said gently, offering his hand to help her rise. "Not all alone."

She looked up at him then, her grey skirts pooling around her, her face like a wan, beseeching flower that crouched amid the spreading foliage on a dark forest floor.

"Will you not have me then, Captain Hammond?" she asked.

*****

Portsmouth 1803

She understood why they were not married. It was no easy thing to procure a divorce on grounds of desertion, and doubly difficult to arrange a matter of such delicacy from the opposite sides of a great ocean in a time of uncertain peace. She understood, and the truth was that she had gone to Charlie's bed a shamefully short time after their understanding had been met. It was all her doing. She had wanted him, she could not deny it. She had exploited his lust, and his deep loneliness. She had sought to bind him to her with the desperation of an abandoned child who had lost everything that had ever mattered to her, and she had not relented until he was hers.

Not being married had never mattered. Always she had believed there would be time, that somehow she would find a way to make him choose her, to keep him with her for always. Foolishly, perhaps, but because she could think only of how much she loved him, she could not think of herself as a ruined woman, and she had never thought to be afraid of what her future might be without him. Until now.

She stood by her window in her dressing gown, her hairbrush in her hand, looking down into the street as darkness crept over the rooftops and spread its shadow on the cobbles below. Night came so quickly now, with winter in its deepest hour. The last night of this life, he said. They would meet again in France.

At last she saw him coming. Tall and broad shouldered, his head bowed slightly under his cocked hat, the tails of his greatcoat blowing in the gusty wind, his stride long and purposeful. She saw him glance up at the house, and instinctively she took a step back from the window as if she did not wish for him to see her there. She smiled to herself. Not just yet.

She waited. She heard his deep voice at the bottom of the stair, and John's, answering his enquiry. A minute. The little glass clock on her dressing table ticked. The fire sighed and popped. Muffled footsteps, a heavy tread, on the carpet in the hall. The click of the latch as the knob turned, and the bolt slid out of the jamb.

He came through her door, filling her room with the size of him, and the smell of wool and tobacco and cold, salted air. There were bright spots of color on his cheeks from the cold, and the thick shock of white hair that crossed his forehead was mussed.

"Hullo, my beauty," he said. His voice was had that edge of roughness, that insinuation of naughtiness that she loved.

But seeing him, hearing him, she suddenly felt sick with fear and longing. Her stomach knotted, and all she wanted was to run to him, to throw herself at his feet and beg him to stay, to choose her. Don't leave me, Charlie. Don’t go.

But she was finished with pleading. Her fate, and Charlie's, was cast to the winds.

"You're not dressed for dinner," he observed, taking in her loose hair, and the white silk wrapper that was embroidered all over with vines and flowers in brilliantly colored threads of red and silver and green and blue and gold, his gift to her, and his favorite.

"Yes I am," she answered him. Lifting her chin, she gave him her most seductive smile, and sliding her fingers through the loose knot that tied the front of her gown, she walked slowly towards him, letting it fall open. His eyebrows lifted slightly, and his brown eyes danced with amusement and yes, desire. She watched the curve of his smiling mouth turn to a taut line as his eyes moved over her exposed flesh. Slowly, the knot in her stomach began to uncoil, to melt and spread like honey under the warm sun.

"I just need you to help me with my hair," she said, holding out the hairbrush. She could see that she was trembling a little as his big hand closed around her wrist. She leaned back just a bit, resisting him slightly, wanting to feel his strength as he tugged her gently to him. The braid on his sleeve was scratchy against her tender skin as his arm slid inside her gown and around her waist, pulling her close. The brass buttons on his topcoat were ice cold to the touch of her belly and breasts. She raised her face to be kissed, but his lips only brushed the bridge of her nose and her brow, before he laid his cheek on her hair.

"Are ye trying to keep me from my supper, Miss?" he whispered, his breath warm and sweet in her ear.

"No," she whispered back, her arms circling his neck. "Only to keep you." The knot in her stomach became a painful lump in her throat and she found she was clinging to him, her face pressed into his shoulder, afraid to breathe lest she should begin to cry and not be able to stop. He hated tears.

"Mary," he sighed. "Don't, darling girl." He reached up to remove her arms from around his neck, and taking the hand that held her silver backed hairbrush, he gently pried it from her fingers. "Here. Give me that." She stood and watched him as he walked the few steps to her dressing table and set down the brush. He removed his jacket and waistcoat, tossing them over the end of her bed, then taking her little chair and turning it to face her, he sat down. She had to smile at the sight. He looked like a giant perched upon a toadstool. He held out his hands.

"Come here," he said huskily. She pulled her dressing gown around her, and went to him. Smiling, he reached for her, and turning her around, sat her down on his lap. "There then," he said, picking up the brush. "Let us attend to the matter at hand."

He began to brush her hair, using long, firm strokes that, after a moment, had Mary laying her head back, her eyes half closed, feeling as if she might begin to purr. Forget, she told herself, luxuriating in his touch. He is still here. There is still tonight to come.

"Is that nice?" he murmured in her ear as he brushed and brushed, the long, dark strands crackling softly, turning to shining silk beneath his hands.

"Mmm," she sighed. "Lovely."

"You are lovely," he pushed the silken mass over one shoulder, baring her neck. He let the hairbrush drop soundlessly onto the thick Turkey carpet, and his arms went around her, hands sliding inside the open front of her gown as he nibbled his way from the crook of her neck to her earlobe. "Tell me what you did today," he said.

She laughed. "Are we making conversation now?" She tipped her head to one side, the better to let his lips wander over her shoulder, and the ticklish nape of her neck. "Very well. Minnie and I went shopping in the High Street." She hesitated, and then added, "We met with your friend, Captain Hornblower."

"Hrmph!" was his only reply.

"Yes," she went on, a teasing tone creeping into her voice. "He gave us a cup of tea. I found him a most agreeable young man. I must say, Captain Hammond, you did behave rather badly last night."

He chuckled softly, nipping at her earlobe. "I beg your pardon! I do not recall you voicing any objection at the time." His voice took on a comical high-pitched feminine tone.  "'Yes, Charlie!' 'More Charlie!' 'Again, Charlie!' was what I heard."

She giggled. "Oh, stop!"

"Stop? No, I don't remember that either," he teased. "And what has *that* to do with Hornblower?"

She smacked his thigh. "You are awful! You know what I'm talking about. You were very rude. You obviously disapprove of him. What is it, Charlie? You have never talked about it. Did you think he was guilty in Kingston?"

He sat back for a moment, and she turned her head to see his face. His heavy dark brows were knitted slightly. "I thought it more than likely," he said. "In truth, I do not know. As if the truth mattered. The irony of it is that what saved Lieutenant Hornblower was the same thing that saved the name of James Sawyer. Christ, we all knew the man was going mad! But he was not to be allowed to fall from grace, any more than Edward Pellew was going to let his man be sent to the gallows. Bloody hell, they'll have us flay the skin off a man for stealing a crust of bread, and hang him outright for striking an officer, no matter the circumstance, but God forbid we should try to learn the truth if it might offend the delicacy of their fat-arsed fucking lordships, while a man like your father---"

"Charlie..."

 "Forgive me, my love," he shook his head. "No, you see Hornblower is already one of the chosen few. He'll get away with bloody murder, if he hasn't already, and he'll finish with a bloody blue flag!"

Mary leaned back against his chest and put up a hand to rub his cheek, feeling the tension in his jaw. "You're angry. But I'm afraid you also sound jealous, Charlie," she said.

He looked down at her for a long moment. He cocked an eyebrow, and finally, a wicked smile began to turn the corners of his mouth. "I, jealous, madam?" he said in a low, throaty voice, and his hands were sliding over her front once more, pushing the slippery folds of the dressing gown from her shoulders and thighs. "On the contrary. From what I observed last night, t'was every man in that room who was jealous of me!"

"Charlie!" she gasped softly as his hands moved to her breasts, and she felt his roughened fingertips circling her tender, swollen nipples, making them contract into taut, tingling little knots. She arched her back, stretching like a cat, raising her arms over her head and back to bury her fingers in his hair. "I love you!"

"I love you, my angel." He half turned her on his lap and embracing her, kissed her hotly, possessively. Her mouth opened eagerly to accept the forceful thrust of his tongue and her thighs parted wantonly, inviting the attentions of the hand as that was now stroking downward over her belly and flank. He laid her back over his arm, kissing her mouth, moving back down to her throat, nipping and sucking at the skin, leaving his mark. His hand never stopped moving, caressing the sensitive insides of her thighs, brushing lightly over the tuft of her yearning sex, sliding up to squeeze her aching breasts as he bent to take them in his mouth. She let out a little mewling sound, feeling the warm gush of desire between her legs as he suckled her, his tongue swirling slowly, maddeningly, hot and wet, around and around the tingling, shriveling peaks, while the sandy roughness of his cheek and chin burned and scratched at her dainty flesh. She moaned softly, reaching for his hand. All of her sensations seemed to be in the tips of her breasts and between her legs, agonizing, hungry, aching, swollen sensations, and she did not know where she wanted him most, but the parts of her that were not receiving his attention were jealous of the parts that were.  She rolled her hips a little, arching against him, trying to push his hand downward, but he teased her, moving so slowly, devoting himself to her nipples as if he didn't know what it was that she needed.

"Please, my love," she panted, squeezing the hand that pressed into her belly.

"Please…" he whispered, raising his head and looking into her passion glazed eyes with an expression that was maddeningly innocent and amused. "Please what, my poppet?"

She struggled to rise, pulling herself back up to a sitting position on his lap. Curling her arms around his neck, she let one foot drop to the floor, leaving herself open, and nuzzling his cheek, whispered, "Touch me."

"Touch you…" his fingers tickled down to the silken tuft between her legs. "Here?" His thick forefinger slid down, slipping between the soft, swollen rolls of flesh. Mary thought she would split and burst, oozing juice like an overripe fruit as he let the finger glide along the blood-glutted inner folds of her sex.

"Here?" he queried softly, as he found her center, and he pushed in slowly, to the knuckle, and hearing her little groan of pleasure, began to move it slowly back and forth. She gritted her teeth and bore down on him. "Yesss…" she hissed, at the exquisite sensation of his gentle, rhythmic stroking. Gawd, why was it that she could never last?  Already she could feel the teasing tightness in her womb, and she struggled to deny the greedy convulsion that wanted to consume her when all she wanted at this moment was that this delicious and incredibly lovely feeling would last forever.

"And here…" Charlie said, and she was done for, as his wet, clever fingers were stroking the sides of that little bud of sweetness where every nerve in her body seemed to find its end.

"Ah!" she gasped, burying her face in his neck and taking a mouthful of salty skin. "Umm," she sucked on him, as he continued his tender assault, circling and stroking, polishing her tender little knobbin as if he were a master jeweler who would bring out the luster of a most precious pearl.

"Oh!" She could take no more, and she cried out and went rigid, clamping her thighs together on his hand as her control shattered, and she came. "Oh!" she cried again. "Damn you, Charlie!"

He was laughing at her, and he pushed his finger deep inside her, causing her to shudder and convulse again and again, milking every drop of sweetness from her slowly dissolving climax. She sagged against him, breathing heavily.

"Not to worry," he said, kissing her. "I believe there might be more where that came from."

"Mm…promise me," she murmured drowsily, kissing him back. She began to untie his neck cloth, and then to open the front of his shirt. Breaking the kiss, she slithered out of his arms and sank, still a little wobbly, to kneel between his legs on the plush carpeted floor. She tugged at his shirt, struggling to pull the ends out of the waist of his breeches. He helped her, pulling the shirt off over his head and tossing it aside. She crept in closer, wrapping her arms around his back, and pressed herself to his broad, bare chest, rubbing her face into the crisp abundance of silver hair. His belly was hard, and there was more dense hair that converged in a thick line that disappeared inside the waist of his breeches. She nosed her way down, and down. Mm, he wanted her, but he was not quite there yet. Sometimes he needed just a little extra attention to bring him to that marvelous granite hardness that she craved. Her maid, Minnie, had told her that the very young men she had bedded could get a cockstand just by feeling the breeze created by a woman's skirts as she passed them by, but that they'd come almost before she could get them inside her. If that was the case, then Mary considered herself fortunate indeed, for once Charlie's mast was stepped, he was there for as long as she wanted him.

Anticipating her intentions, Charlie leaned back in the chair, and sucked in his belly a bit to make it easier for her to loosen his buttons. Her fingers worked quickly, and soon she brought out her prize, already responding to her touch, growing even harder, warm and slick and fragrant with the heady scent of musk. She remembered the first time she had dared look at it outright, and how she had been a little frightened and repelled by its aggressive, alien appearance, the obscenity of the shining, naked flesh and network of throbbing veins. Now, she fancied herself a little in love with it, quite independent of Charlie and she thought it really rather beautiful, the stem so hard and smooth, all marble and silk, and the crown like heated, sheared velvet beneath her lips.

His hands were stroking her naked shoulders, kneading the back of her neck, as she took him into her mouth, and she closed her eyes, hearing his long, satisfied exhalation of breath. He'd never asked where she'd learned it, this whore's trick, but how he loved it, and how she loved the feeling of power it gave her. She slid her hand inside his breeches, taking the balls in her palm. Curiously cool they were, for living in so warm and snug a place; heavy, and so delicate, like a pair of plover's eggs nestled in their softly furred pouch of silky skin. With the tips of her fingers she massaged the place just behind and heard him groan. She moved on him with inexorable slowness, stroking him with her tongue, with her lips, drawing his pleasure, bringing him forth to surging, rampant readiness.

"God…oh….love…" his fingers knotted in her hair, pressing her down, and he began to move his hips. She gave herself up to him, wrapping her arms around his thighs to brace against the onslaught, knowing there was power even in surrender, for now he was her slave. She could feel the tension in his body, the vibration of tightly coiled muscle, the barely controlled force of him that she held in her hands. The sound of his breathing, ragged and thick, was incredibly arousing, and she felt her own desire begin to build once more, with thrumming pulse and swirling heat, as unbearable as an itch that would not be scratched, and she moaned helplessly, shuddering as she pressed her thighs together against the provoking beat of her agitated blood.

But then he was bending down, raising her face in his hands, kissing her soft, wet mouth, her flushed cheeks and dripping chin.  His hands slid beneath her arms and he pulled her to him, drawing her onto his lap once more. She straddled him, and his hands roved over the ripe curves of her buttocks, pulling her snug against his own hips. His manhood stood erect, pressed between their two bodies. Gazing hotly into his eyes, dark and blazing with restless desire, she stroked her thumb across his parted lips.

"What will you do with me now, Charlie?" she whispered.

He pressed her face between his two hands, strong enough to crush her skull, his thumbs roughly caressing her fevered cheeks. "I will have you," he breathed thickly. "God help me, I will have you, or I will die."
 
The little chair was narrow, armless, and just low enough for her feet to barely reach the floor. Raising herself on her toes, she held herself above him as his fingers delved once more into the slick furrow of her sex, spreading her, preparing her for his entry. He drew her down, and she let herself fall, gasping, on the edge between pleasure and pain, as the weight of her body brought him deep inside her.

"I would not have you die." She leaned into him, tracing his lips with the tip of her tongue, drawing him into a kiss. As their tongues twined in a sinuous dance, her hands moved over him, the broad, hard planes of his body that she loved, running her fingers through the coarse, silvered fur of his chest, and over the ridges of old scars that were his marks of valor. His hips moved against hers in provocative invitation, and she rocked against him in response, the urgent pressure creating that mounting sensation of needful want, of yearning for completion. Nothing existed but the touch of his hands, the feel of his mouth, and the incredible fulfillment of his perfect cock inside her, stretching her, filling her to the limit her body would accept.

Raising herself on her toes, she brought herself down again on the thick, upright stalk. Again, and again, and he seized her hips, fingers digging into the firm, yielding flesh of her buttocks as he spread her wide open so the whole of her was stretched and exposed to the furious friction of their joining.

 Their eyes locked, hard and passion dark into soft and love-hazed and he was watching her as she rode him harder and faster, crying softly with the joy of their union. She could barely separate the surging emotions and sensations that overran her body, her heart and her mind when he loved her. She only knew she had been born to love him, that her love for him was sacred and good, that this could never be ruin. She could only be swept along with the rushing torrent of her passion until the flood broke, until the heat of her loins became annihilating fire.

Go to Part
Five