Part Eight

March 1798

Georgiana's tall, elegant Dublin townhouse occupied most of the corner of Nassau and Grafton Streets, and from her North-facing bedroom window, commanded a splendid view of the expansive greensward of College Park, all the way down to Aston Quay, and the slow flowing, green-gray waters of the Liffey. Only now had the first rays of a still winter-weak sun begun to softly touch the eastern facades and the rooftops of Trinity, washing the mellow old stones with its pale, fragile light. Were he to climb up to the roof walk, Archie knew he would be able to see all the way to the bay, where Indefatigable lay at anchor, waiting for him.

Newly provisioned, her orders were to patrol a stretch of the Irish coast from Dublin to Cork. Not two years before, a French fleet, carrying an invasion force of some fifteen thousand men under General Hoche as well as the Irish rebel leader, Wolfe Tone (now made a French admiral-general), had given the British fleet the slip off of Brest. Only a fortuitous rising of storms that had scattered the fleet and severely damaged a quarter of their ships had prevented their landing at Bantry Bay. The country was simmering with unrest, and in London, the fear was very real that the French meant yet to bring their Republican revolution to Irish shores. Lord Cornwallis had just been made Viceroy and Commander-in-chief of forces in Ireland, and there was talk of martial law being declared. Just days earlier, the Leinster Directory of the United Irishmen's leaders had been arrested, betrayed by one of their own. Rumors were naturally rife, and it was clear that the admiralty had every intention of preventing the landing of a second French expedition, should one indeed be attempted.

Archie wondered if he should be worried for George. Dublin was well garrisoned and safe, but she had spoken of going home to her lands in County Wicklow for a time before the Dublin Season got into full swing. Predictably, she had made light of his concern.

"This is how we live," she had said with a shrug and a smile. "It is part of being Irish. And I am Irish, Archie. English as well, of course, but on both sides of his family, my son's line goes back to that of Irish kings. We have always been here, and we always will be."

 It was no kind of argument, of course, but as his cousin Alistair had once said, "She can look after herself, can George."

Standing by the window, looking out on a quiet, well-ordered city it was difficult to imagine that peace disturbed. And turning away, looking over his shoulder to the rumpled bed where she lay, still fast asleep amidst a snowdrift of white linen and a tangle of mad red hair, it was as difficult as it ever had been to imagine kissing her goodbye.

******

George's eye fell first on a gold guinea coin, glinting as the sun crept across the floor of her chamber, making it's way towards the bed with luxurious slowness. The coins lay everywhere, half-buried in the thick pile of the carpet, and the sun moved in, touching them one by one, lighting a pathway strewn with treasure that led to the window where he stood looking out.

Six years, and fewer than a scant handful of meetings over that time. So many changes in both their lives, mostly for good. And here they were again. Six years had turned her angel into something more like a young, golden god. The beautiful red-gold hair fell loosely over shoulders that were broader than she remembered, the musculature of his back was more chiseled and refined beneath smooth, honeyed skin; the waist nipping in neatly, the hips sturdy, but lean.

And as for that arse…

"Mmmm, don't wake me," she drawled, rolling lazily onto her stomach and regarding him out of the corner of one sleepy, but mischievous eye. "I am having the most beautiful dream."

He turned immediately at the sound of her voice, offering her an anterior view that was, she thought, half again as delicious as that from the rear. When had he got hair on his chest? It was lovely, soft and golden, just enough to delight her playing fingers. He was just a little taller, she guessed, still compact, the face still almost girlishly beautiful, but everything about him seemed that little bit more manly, harder, larger…

"Good morning," he said, a smirky, self-satisfied smile playing about his lips. "Sleep well?"

"Like a stone," she purred, propping herself on one elbow, and allowing the covers to fall away a bit, exposing one round, pink-tipped little breast. "An exhausted, utterly well-pleasured stone. My God, Archie, have I told you how magnificently you've grown?"

He grinned, thoughtfully running his fingers over a chin that showed a most charming growth of dark blonde stubble. "Mm. You did say something last night about how you thought I'd got even bigger."

"Wicked!" she giggled. "But I always knew it. For beautiful young men and horses, I have an eye, you know."

"Would you have bet a hundred guineas on me?" he asked, eyeing the riches that littered the floor, her winnings from the previous day's horse racing. She'd been more than a little tipsy on celebratory champagne last night, but she remembered opening the little casket that held the coins and flinging handfuls of them into the air, spinning, giggling madly until Archie had caught her up, laughing, and carried her to bed.

He must be thinking of the very same thing. She saw the pretty flush that she loved creeping into his cheeks, and dropping her gaze rather deliberately, noted other slight, but rather unmistakable signs of a stirring of the blood. She squeezed her thighs together as a little thrilling pulse began to throb in her. Oh, she was as wanton as ever! Suddenly, she couldn't think of a blessed thing but getting him inside her again!

"Brrr!" she shivered, but did not bother to cover herself again. "It's chilly in here! Did the girl never come to bring up the fire? You do make a fetching sight, darling, but aren't you very cold?"

He laughed, and finally bestirred himself from the window, coming to the foot of the bed. "You left orders you'd ring when you wanted her. There's some coal still in the bucket. Shall I do it?"

"No. Never mind," she said, snuggling back against the pile of bolsters and pulling the covers up to her nose. Only her eyes, deep green and twinkling, and the top of her undoubtedly mussed head showed. "Why don't you just come back to bed?"

He came round the side of the bed and sat on its edge, facing her, looking ever so comfortably relaxed in all his naked splendor. "I'm not really cold," he said, conversationally. "You don't know cold until you've stood middle watch on a winter's night in the Channel." He lay back on his elbow. She didn't notice his hand stealing beneath the edge of the churned up covers.

"Sounds dreadful," she nodded. "I should think it would be lovely, at such a time, to imagine oneself all warm and snug in b---Oh! Archie, don't you dare!" she squawked as his hand closed tightly around her ankle, gently but firmly tugging one little white foot out from under.

"Noo!" she squealed, curling the toes and wriggling desperately, as he brought his lips close to the delicate, ticklish instep. Blue eyes gleamed wickedly as he pursed his mouth and blew a light, cool stream of air onto the spot. She jerked madly, and kicked out futilely with her free leg as he inched back, just beyond her reach.

"Dooon't!" she screamed, giggling hysterically in spite of herself. "Oh, you fiend! You know how I hate----oh, STOP!" The tip of his tongue had barely touched her. Crazed, she seized a pillow and flung it at his head and it struck home with a satisfying "FWAP!"
But still did not let go her foot.

"Oh, do you want me to stop?" His eyes were dancing, as he shoved the pillow aside. His thumb stroked firmly along her arch, which didn't feel nearly so awful, in fact it was rather nice, but the look in his eye said he was not to be trusted.

"Please," she said politely. "If you would be so kind." She fluttered her eyelashes at him. "Lieutenant. " She smiled. "Sir."

"You do ask prettily," he said thoughtfully, and with a perfectly charming smile. He had the foot in both hands now, and he was rubbing it gently, which felt very nice indeed, but every time she gave it a little experimental tug, she found that he still held her firmly. "May I ask you something?"

She sighed. "It would appear I am at your mercy. Ask away."

"Who is Mr. Ogilvie?" he asked lightly.

"Ogilvie?"

"Mm. There's a great pile of his letters on your writing table." His forefinger was hovering dangerously over her instep.

"Nosey." Instinctively, she curled her toes so tightly she nearly gave herself a cramp. "You didn't read them, did you?"

"Of course not," he released her foot then, but not without first lightly kissing the big toe. He looked at her a little shamefacedly. "I'm sorry, George, I should not ask---"

She drew her foot well up under the covers. "No, you shouldn't," She gave him a reproving look. They had had this conversation, and she had believed they understood one another.

"But if you must know, Mr. Oglivie is most assuredly not my lover. He is my broker!"

"Your broker?"

"Oh, indeed, have I not told you of my latest passion? Speculation! It's terribly risky!" she said with a delighted grin. "I've bought into all sorts of schemes. Lost quite a bit of blunt on a new kind of steel furnace that some fellow was trying to invent, but for the most part, I'm ever so good at it! Mr. Ogilvie says he's never seen the like! We've had great success with a coal transport scheme. Manchester to Liverpool for four pence a ton—no one believed it possible!" She sat up and put her hands in her hair, gathering the wild mop into a thick twist that she pulled over one shoulder. "When you've got some prize money," she said. "You must let me find an investment for you."

He grinned. "Thank you, but I think the funds will do for me."

She shook her head, smiling. "Tsk. So cautious." How utterly delectable he looked, she thought, stretched out across the end of her bed like a sleek, golden cat, and looking at her with those wide, innocent blue eyes. A moment before she'd been set on seduction. How had she been distracted?

Taking a grave risk, she slid down, down, reaching with her foot until it emerged at the end of the bed.

"Archie," she said softly, poking a cautious toe into the softness of his belly. "Don't be jealous, darling. I will always love you, you know that." She sighed, as he reached out and took the foot once more in his hands, caressing it gently. "It is you who will break my heart one day."

He shook his head. "There is no one…" he whispered, running one hand lightly up the inside of her calf to the knee and placing a little kiss on her ankle,"…like you."

"True," she smiled and stretched, as she felt his hand, warm and strong, move higher, stroking the inside of her thigh. To her surprise, his head and shoulders disappeared beneath the cloud of sheets and eiderdown. "But there will be someone. And---Oh, love!" she felt a tiny nip on her calf, then his hands taking a gentle hold on her hips, pulling her lower. " I think she will have reason to thank me, if I do say it myself!"

She couldn't take all of the credit, of course. Even all but virginal, he'd always had the most marvelous instincts, all of his own, and that was well, because in truth, she did not much care for giving instructions. She could be very bold when she wished it, and she could take great pleasure in provoking a man to wild ardor by behaving shockingly in bed. But in her secret heart, the shameful truth was that nothing thrilled her more than the fancy of being completely and utterly taken. She knew it had been what had drawn her to Phillip, this dark desire of hers. To be in his power, to know that wild excitement, the hot passion with it's icy edge of fear; to be relentlessly pleasured to the point of helpless surrender---it was a thing of which even her worst experiences had still not cured her. Somehow, Archie had proved her perfect complement. He had in him not only the greatest sweetness and tenderness, but also, underlying, a heat, a low-simmering aggression born, she could only imagine, of his very own struggle with pain and fear---the part of him that, for most of his life, he had fought so bravely to master and conceal. Arousal brought out the aggressor in him, and she had always encouraged and allowed it, tempered, as it was, with utmost trust. And so it was that they answered each other's need.

His hair was brushing the insides of her thighs, and she tensed as she felt his lips, feather soft, here and there caressing the soft, sensitive skin. It tickled a little, and she had to close her eyes and remember to breathe deeply and evenly to keep from squirming. His breath was making the space under the covers all moist and steamy.

"What are you about down there?" she asked.

The reply was slightly muffled, but the inflection undeniably naughty. "Shall I tell you, or show you?"

He did not wait for an answer. She felt his hands at the backs of her knees, pushing her legs up and apart. She caught her breath. Oh.

She had never asked him to…

Some men just didn't…

A hot flush spread over her entire body and her belly tightened in anticipation. His fingers were probing her gently, and her pulse quickened. She waited, and gasped, finally, "Archie! What are you…! Oh, sweet heaven!"

He was not in the least tentative. He seemed not even to stop to wonder how she would react to what he was doing. He simply did it. Gently, but deliberately, and seemingly with great relish, he delved between the folds, with his first stroke laving her from end to end with the flat of his tongue just like a huge mother cat. George's eyes flew open and she clutched at the bedclothes, as if to keep herself from flying away. She must have cried out, and she thought she heard him chuckling down there as he drew back for a moment and then dove right back in, licking, sampling, driving her inflamed pulses to the sky.

His instincts did not fail him now. Intuitively, he seemed to know just what to do, where to use his tongue, how hard, how soft. He found her ultra-sensitive little hidden bud, now swollen and throbbing, and his lips closed softly around it, his tongue flicking over and around as he suckled her tenderly. She gasped, and backed away from him, sliding towards the head of the bed as the pleasure assailed her, so intense, it was almost near pain.

"No…don't stop!" she whispered breathlessly as he held and waited for her. She reached for him, and stroked his hair, sweaty and damp, and tangled her fingers in the strands.

His palms slid beneath her buttocks and he pulled her firmly against him. With a pleasured groan, he buried his face in her, and renewed his efforts, stroking the delicate tissues with his lips and tongue, flicking that tingling, engorged little spot over and over until she was sure she couldn't stand it any longer. She let out a long, agonized moan.

It was so hot! Recklessly she flung the pile of bedding off and away from her, uncovering his head and shoulders. The sun was streaming through her windows now. The sight of his beautiful golden head moving between her spread thighs was beyond erotic; George threw back her head and sobbed, clutching at his shoulders. His fingers were pressing into her hips, holding her.

Overwhelmed by sensation, she tried to wriggle free of him. His response was to sink his tongue into her, as far as he could go. Then, he drew it out slowly, scraping the length of her. He began stroking…

George imagined she must be screaming now, and the whole of bloody Dublin could hear her! The sounds she was making were incomprehensible.

"FUCK!" she swore.  "Archie! Dammit, stop! Oh, stop, or I'm going to die!" she wailed.  It was too late. His tongue flicked rapidly on the throbbing, hidden spot, sending her even higher. She spasmed against his lips, writhing and twisting, choking and sobbing his name.

He did not stop. Moving up the length of her body, he slid his arms underneath her, locking them tightly about her. He rolled over with her clasped in his arms, bringing her on top of him. His hands moved up, catching in her hair and he pulled her to him for a rough, untamed kiss that took away the very last of her breath. She felt she would swoon as he cupped her under her arms lifting her higher, holding her just above him, her breasts suspended like succulent fruits within his easy reach. He held her easily, taking first one, and then the other all the way into his mouth, sucking slowly, his teeth capturing each tiny bud in an abrasive graze. With his lips, he tugged sharply, slowly letting the firm tips slip from his grasp. Her moaning reaction encouraged him and he carried on, licking, sucking, biting. His mouth was everywhere: nipping at her throat, laving the smooth undersides of her breasts, the satiny planes of her torso.

Between her legs she quivered like a tautly drawn bowstring, sustained on the very edge of her climax. She could feel him, huge and hard against her belly, hips and thighs as he moved her body over his. She wanted him so desperately; she knew she would die if she must wait even a moment more.

"Archie!" she rasped, placing her hands on his shoulders, pulling herself up so she knelt over him, poised above the straining tip of him. His hands moved to her waist.

She came the instant he entered her. "Bugger the whole of bloody Dublin!" she thought, crying out loudly and long as he thrust up boldly into her. His pulsating fullness wholly filled her, and if his arms had not been holding her so tightly, she imagined she would have simply flown apart, shattering into a million pieces, shivering, crystalline, glittering like diamonds, like tiny shards of glass, as she floated through he air, lit by the bright, morning sun.

***

"You look so handsome," she said, plucking an imaginary speck of lint from the rich, dark blue fabric that draped his broad shoulders to perfection.

Archie himself was well satisfied with the cut of his new uniform and, if he could be so vain as to confess it, with the picture he made in the long glass. Not bad, Lieutenant Kennedy.

Standing behind him, George wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her head on his shoulder. "Shall I walk with you to the quay? I can be dressed in only a minute."

"There's no need," he covered her hands with his own. He could only imagine the commentary were he to be noticed being seen off by a beautiful woman. Bracegirdle in particular was sure to be an unrelenting tease. "And I was meant to be visiting with family, do you remember?"

"You could tell them I'm your Aunt Caroline."

He laughed and shook his head. "They have heard about my Aunt Caroline!"

"Then I'll just be George. I'll put on my breeches and topcoat, like yesterday."

"Mm," he took one of her hands and pulled her around to face him, taking her in his arms. "That might be even more awkward to explain. There was all of that noise, you know. Last night *and* this morning."

"Tsk! Cad!" she flipped him under his chin with the back of her hand. "I wasn't that bad!"

He shook his head. "Oh, no. In fact, I don't believe the whole of Dublin heard you after all."

"Thank you!"

"No," he said. "In fact I think the whole of Ireland heard you!"

"Oh, do stop!" she put her hands on his chest to push herself away from him, but he tightened his arms around her, pulled her close, and kissed her. She was still in her dressing gown, still bed-warm and fragrant with sleep and love.

"Why don't you just crawl back into bed and sleep some more?" he whispered into the hopeless tangle of her hair. "That is how I want to think of you, the whole time I'm away."

She sighed. Her hands roamed over him one last time, memorizing the feel of his strong, compact body. She dipped into the front pocket of his coat. It was deep, smooth, lined with silk, empty. "Whatever became of my touchstone, Archie?" she asked softly. "Do you know?"

He shook his head. "I don't." He had never been able to recall when he had had it last. There had been times, sick, frightening, desperate times, times when he had been lost, times when he had all but forgotten his own name, times when he had been a great deal closer to death than to life. Where had it been lost? In the bottom of a longboat, adrift on the sea? Somewhere in France, in Spain? Ground into the dirt, or perhaps found by another who would treasure it's rare, smooth beauty and fancy it would bring him luck?

"I don't know," he repeated. "But it doesn't matter." He smiled, and kissed her again. "You're my touchstone, George.


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