A King`s Commander l-7

by Dewey Lambdin

  Lucius Annaeus Seneca

  CHAPTER

  1

  A quick inventory, a circular course for his jittery right hand along his uniform. Cuffs shot, waistcoat tugged straight, hat set on just so. Wash-leather purse full of guineas still safe, and, a blank note-of-hand snugly ensconced in a coat pocket… well, then.

  A deep, spine-straightening breath before he rapped on the door. As he waited for someone within to answer, Lewrie experimented with a range of expressions on his face. Smile? No. Frown? That wouldn't do, either. Something in-between, perhaps? Though he suspected that "something in-between" would resemble a gas attack, or a pair of too-tight shoes. He was striving hellish hard for Ambivalent!

  And why the Devil'd she remove herself to this set o' rooms? he asked himself with a quick, fleeting scowl; her old'uns were nice enough, and not that dear. She have a comedown, 'spite of the money I left her? Waste it all on fripperies, or gamblin'…?

  "Yessir?" A mob-capped oldish maidservant inquired of him as the door opened with a rusty creak, at last.

  "Commander Alan Lewrie…" he flummoxed out, not sure exactly what sort of expression his phyz wore, then. "Come to call upon Mademoiselle Phoebe Aretino. Is she in?"

  "God be praised, sir!" The square old crone cried in delight, clapping her hands together, and raising enough noise to wake the entire neighborhood. "You're her Navy fella, come back at last! Come you in, sir! Come you in Let me take your hat, Commander Lewrie… have a cane, an'… no? Mistress]"

  She bawled that with the door standing wide open. Cartmen and vendors were stopped dead in their tracks in the narrow, steep little street that straggled uphill from the Old Moles. A curate and his wife out for an invigorating uphill stroll, both clad in old rusty-black dominйe ditto, were frowning heavily as Lewrie sought some way short of strangulation to stifle the old mort's bellows.

  "Mistress Phoebe!" the woman halloed upstairs. "'Tis Commander Lewrie! He's come, ma'am! Hurry!"

  At least he could use his foot to slam that heavy old door, to keep their reunion somewhat private, as a delighted shriek came from above, quickly followed by the patter of petite feet on the carpet and floorboards and stairs. Lewrie's lips twitched as he attempted to regain the composure of his face anew. And trying to recall just exactly which demeanor he'd thought most suitable.

  "Alain!" Phoebe cried breathlessly-almost brokenly, as she appeared on the tiny middle landing of the narrow pair of stairs. Her brown eyes were fawn-huge and lambent, as if suddenly aswim with tears of joy, and her cheeks flush with emotion.

  Oh, damme, Lewrie thought with a shudder, a definite lurching in his chest, and an instant, tumbledy flood of warmth; why the Devil she have to look that handsome! That young and…!

  He went to raise his right hand, as if to doff the hat he didn't wear to her in genteel salute, but it got no higher than his midchest, appearing to her as an invitation, before she dashed down the stairs to fling herself upon him with such a fierce ardor that he was almost driven backward, off his heels, to the floor.

  He rocked one heel backward to balance, put his arms about her to hold her up, savoring all over again just how tiny, how petite and perfectly formed Phoebe Aretino was. With her arms about his neck and most happily dangling, with her heels far off the floor, showering his face, his neck, his eyes, with a positive deluge of kisses, whispering betwixt each some French, some English endearments, and declarations of how much she had ached for the sight of him.

  To support her, of course… doin' the gentlemanly thing, Lewrie swore to himself!… he was forced to place his hands under her bottom. Touch her small, spare, incredibly soft…!

  "Phoebe…" he whimpered. He'd meant to growl, to caution her about the maid, whose presence Phoebe was blissfully ignoring. Meant to greet her pleasantly, in point of fact. Merely pleasantly, but… Their lips met, open and inviting, coffee-hot and musky, already, as she, still oblivious to the cronish maidservant, lifted her ever so slim thighs and wrapped them around his waist!

  "Phoebe…?" he essayed again.

  Well damme, he thought, in a hopeless muddle! Meant that'un to be japing… cajole her down! But it had come out throaty, caressing.

  He evidently had called upon her just about the time she'd arisen from bed, or just after her morning ablutions. Phoebe hadn't taken time to throw on a morning gown in which visitors could be decently received- only a spiderweb-thin silk dressing robe. No corsets, stays, or underpinnings, no chemise, nothing even atу cumbrous came between his hands, which were now beginning to rove her back and bottom fondly, and her tender young flesh, but that dressing robe.

  Damp ringlets of lustrous dark brown hair toyed about his face and collars-rich, sultrily Italian, Mediterranean, exotic and dark-as-coffee hair.

  "So long, Alain, mon cerf formidable]" she crooned in his ear, a tiny, breathless huskiness to her usually small voice. "Mont' an' mont', you be away, an' on'y ze une lettre! Mon coeur, ah mees you si trиs beaucoup]"

  "Phoebe!" He sighed, chuckling with uncontrollable, undeniable delight, by then, as he dipped his head to kiss her throat, the soft flesh under her chin, her slim neck below her ears.

  Knew this'd happen, he chid himself; knew it! But not anywhere near as harshly as he might. God help me, but…!

  Nature had her way with him, by then. Unbidden, in spite of a whole host of good intentions, the fork of his breeches felt nigh to bursting with a raging tumescence which he swore could serve as taffrail flagstaff in a full gale! He took a clumsy step toward those first set of stairs, felt her shift against him, meaning to keep his balance under such a tempting, alluring, top-heavy cargo… and he was lost. Again.

  "Ma chйrie," he muttered, "ma petit biche. Ma choul"

  "Oh, Alain, 'urry!" she teased, glancing upward. "Mon amour]"

  Well, he thought, not a touch rueful; s'pose we have to get reac-quainted first. In for the penny, in for the pound, an' all that!

  They'd not quite attained real privacy, not that first reunion. A trail of his shoes, sword and belt, neck-stock and coat littered up the second flight attested to that. Waistcoat gone, long-tail shirt and breeches open, he'd played horsey to her hunter, and trotted her to the tiny upper landing, into her bedchambers, and all about the room. Laughing all the while, crying "Yoicks, Tallyho!" and making bugle calls through his nostrils. "Trot! Canter! Draw sabers and… sound the Charge!" As he recalled from seeing the local Yeoman Cavalry practice their drill back in Angles-green. Spitted upon him, Phoebe had shrieked aloud, open windows to the street bedamned… and more than once, too, he smugly congratulated himself… before they'd collapsed exhausted across her high bedstead, in shuddery giggles of delight, tears of ecstasy, and much-needful pantings.

  A quarter-hour of kisses, caresses, strokes of dearly remembered skin. A quarter-hour of endearments, of pledges of heartbreak over the long separation, many sighs and shudders, and rolling about, twine and countertwine, stoking the coals with kisses becoming more and more intimate and giving…

  Looking up at her, rough sailor's hands on her slim, swansdown hips as she bestrode him, rocking and riding bold as a plumed lancer… riding Saint George with her head thrown back and her carefully coiffed hair come down in sweaty "а la victime" ringlets. Incredibly slim arms, her waif-slim waist, and taut little belly… Phoebe's small breasts in his eyes, large dark areoli and pouty little nipples mesmerizing him all over again, bedewed with perspiration as she flung herself, thrusted to meet him. So tiny, she was, so gamin and light, so completely engrasping and enfolding about him! So utterly kittenish, yet minxlike and enthralling! And so strong, her slim little fingers, on his shoulders as she leaned forward, face crumpled, tears flowing, breath rasping harsh and insistent between her moans and cries.

  He slid his hands up to surround her breasts and she leaned in to support herself, eyes flying wide open as she began to smile, expectantly, speared to the utter depths of her heart, of her soul, in one more of a series of "the little deaths." As his own release
built to more than he could stand without bellowing like a steer, not a moment more could he wait, withhold himself, delay his pleasuring in hopes it might help her attain hers! Hard and greedy now, niceties bedamned, and Phoebe took his hands in hers, crushed sword-bruted, rope-bruted palms into her tenderest flesh. Twined fingers and keened aloud, a victory paean that went on and on, rising falsetto in time to their every shift and judder, until at last…

  She screamed a weak, thin scream, twined fingers tighter, and leaned back, trusting him to keep her from falling, as his own head exploded, as he departed his life for a maelstrom of colored stars, tumbling down a cannon's barrel into the swirling sparks and flame points of eruption. Exploding upward, delirious and aswim, reeling and rolling in a fever-dream, feeling her grip him, grip him, grip him and spasm, as their senses tumbled around the cosmos.

  Utterly ruined, when he came back to his life, a few moments later, chest heaving for air. Utterly spent, as she sat back erect, then dropped, shuddering and gasping, atop him. Her soft, gentle breath gusting now, across his shoulder. Damp ringlets clinging to both their faces. Surprisingly strong little hands and arms about his neck. Yet such an utterly soft, sweet, and spent kiss did she give him in reward, her full, sweet lips brushing his so lightly, and curling upward in a smile.

  He put his arms about her slim back, stroked her damp flesh from shoulders to buttocks, then encircled her and squeezed possessively, inhaling deep for his wind, and taking in every subtle nuance of cologne, scented soap, perspiration, sweet hair, and lovemaking, as if to fill his lungs with her forever.

  "Je t'adore, Alain," she told him, her voice tiny, and barely audible, even with her lips near his ear. "Afterr aw' zees time… you are 'ere, encore! Je t'adore, mon coeur. Mon chou fantastique."

  "Missed you, too." Alan sighed, giving her another squeezing hug and feeling a shoulder-rolling shudder go right down to his toes as he did so. "You, I adore, aussi, ma chou. Je t'adore … trиs beaucoup]"

  Damme to hell, but… he sighed to himself, biting his lip but with his hands gently caressing her in spite of all; I said it, both ways-Frog and English. Damme to hell, but it's true!

  "Je t'adore, ma belle amour. Je t'adore," he whispered. In for the penny, in for the pound, indeed. But it felt so good to be back!

  CHAPTER

  2

  "Ahoy, the boat!" Midshipman Spendlove called to the heavy hired cutter, as it neared them, oars dipping in liquid gold water in an amber-tinted Mediterranean twilight.

  "Jesterl" came the return hail, from their captain himself.

  "Must be in a hurry, not to've sent off for his gig," Hyde opined by his side, on the starboard gangway.

  "Thought we'd have been up-anchor, and away, hours ago," Mister Midshipman Spendlove rejoined. Though he had already speculated on why the captain had sent his gig back to the ship, just after he had gotten to Gibraltar 's Old Mole landing, a heavy bundle of dispatches in a canvas-wrapped case under his arm. And then he hadn't returned since noon? And Midshipman Clarence Spendlove, from previous service, knew what tempting lure still lurked at Gibraltar, to ensnare the captain… just like Dido from his Latin texts. Dido and… whatever his name was! Imprudent reality made his slim erudition flee his head.

  "Mine arse on a bandbox," Spendlove muttered sotto voce, emulating his commanding officer, once he had a gander at the cutter's contents. "Mister Rydell, midshipman of the watch's duty to Mister Knolles, and inform him the captain's returning aboard. Run, boy! Mister Cony? Bosun o' the watch, there! Side-party, man the gangway!"

  Spithead nightingales shrilled, Marine Sergeant Boothby and the first officer, Mister Knolles, presented swords. Marines stamped their feet and slapped walnut musket stocks in salute, as the top of their captain's hat loomed over the lip of the entry port. Crewmen of the watch, and most of the off-duty watch idling on deck, doffed hats, to pay homage.

  Homage that was returned, by the doff of a gold-laced cocked hat, on Lewrie's part, once he'd attained the security of the upper oaken gangway deck.

  "Mister Knolles, I…" Lewrie began hesitantly, quite unlike his usual demeanor.

  "Aye, sir?" Knolles prompted, wondering why his frank and open commanding officer could not quite match glances with him, of a sudden.

  "Bosun's chair, over the side, to the boat, Mister Knolles." The captain grunted. "Arad a working-party. Blackwall hitch on the main-yard stay-tackle, to fetch dunnage aboard."

  "Aye, aye, sir," Knolles replied. "Mister Cony? Rig a bosun's chair. And a cargo stay-tackle hoist."

  "Dismiss the side-party, Mister Knolles," Lewrie ordered, turning to peer over the side, arms spread wide on the bulwarks. "We're not receiving officers."

  Ralph Knolles raised an eyebrow, stepped to the side, surreptitiously, and cast a single furtive glance over. Their lone passenger was a woman! A most beautiful young… lady? Knolles frowned. Oh, he gasped in recognition. Last time we were at Gibraltar, the captain… they said he had a doxy ashore, but…

  Hell's bells, Knolles thought, with a weary sigh, before turning to supervise the working party. It was no concern of his, really, what his captain did, whom he entertained aft on-passage. Knolles had served in ships with a captain's entire family aboard, had been aboard a 3rd Rate in which every warrant, division, or department head had his "wife" and kiddies along! The solitary, celibate seafaring life was a convenient fiction, for the most part-mostly for the benefit of the true wives and families left ashore-! But, he never thought Commander Lewrie'd be…!

  No, probably not a lady, Knolles sniffed in prim dismissal; an affair… most definitely an affair! … he had no business in.

  You damn' fool, Lewrie eluded himself; you damn' fool! His face felt flush, and his clothing chafed him, itchy and sore. Or, perhaps, his very skin, he thought. Yet, he stood atremble with more concern for Phoebe's safety than for his repute, as she was hoisted aboard.

  He'd really meant to end their relationship, had taken a fair amount of solid coin, and a note-of-hand upon his shore agent, then his London bank, to cushion her dismissal from his life. So short a time, though, in her bewitching presence, and he was as will-less as a drunken gambler.

  "Zat ees effroyable" Phoebe peeped, once free of the slings of the bosun's chair, a high color to her own cheeks, but with glitter to her eyes. "Mais… ees trиs їmotionnant]" With a giggle of fading delight, she slipped an arm through his.

  "Ahum… Mister Knolles, allow me to name to you, Mademoiselle Phoebe Aretino," Lewrie stammered over the social graces. "She will be sailing with us. Mademoiselle is from Corsica, originally, so…"

  "Mademoiselle Aretino," Knolles said, doffing his hat, and making a "leg" in reply to her graceful curtsy. Though his expression was hellish-bland.

  "Lieutenant… Knolles, enchantй, m'sieur," Phoebe rejoined, with her best formal manner. "Ah, M'sieur Spen'loove! Bonjour, encore] You are-ah well?" she cried, as she spotted a familiar face.

  "Ma'am," Spendlove greeted, blushing. "Aye. Well, uhm…"

  "An' m'sieur… Lapin? Non. .. pardon, merci merde alors …" Phoebe stumbled. "M'sieur Cony! Ze gran' 'ero weez ze… grenades?"

  "Aye, ma'am," Cony said, preening, " 'twaz grenadoes, we used. Good o' ya t'remember, ma'am."

  "Well, hmm…" Lewrie flummoxed, once the many introductions were done among the quarterdeck people, who had crowded forward, after word had gone around that a vision had descended from heaven. And that the captain had a doxy! Alan felt as a pilfering thief might, forced to run a gantlet of his mess-deck victims, and their starters or rope ends. "Cony, do you be so good as to see uhm… Mistress Aretino's… dunnage, aft? Mister Knolles, I note the wind'll serve, just. We've an hour till full dark. We could be standing out, around Europa Point, by then. Pipe the hands to Stations for Weighing Anchor, and prepare us for getting underway."

  "Aye aye, sir," Knolles replied, just as glad as Lewrie to escape into something more mundane and maritime.

  "I'll see Mistress Aretino aft, and get her somewhat sett
led," Lewrie promised, "then rejoin you. Carry on, till then, sir."

  * * *

  "But, isn't he married?" Midshipman Hyde queried in a whisper.

  "Aye, but…" Spendlove griped, just as softly. "Met her at Toulon. Used to be… enamored, I s'pose you could call it, of our Lieutenant Scott, but he passed over when we were sunk. Didn't have anyone else to turn to, around the time of the evacuation, so…"

  "Oh, like the Vicomtesse de Maubeuge?" Hyde said, his tongue firmly in cheek. "I must say, Clarence… at least the captain has grand taste, when it comes to women. Wives and doxies, hmm?"

  "My word, Cony!" Knolles grumbled. "My bloody oath] So she is, well… was Scott's paramour, first? Now, our captain's?"

  "Aye, sir," Cony said with a faint scowl of worry. "A sweet l'il thing, though." He'd known Lewrie's amatory appetites for years; shared 'em, in point of fact. Reveled in 'em, truth to tell! Going to sea, becoming Lewrie's "man" so long ago, had opened his eyes to life, broadened his horizons far beyond that bucolic innocence he'd known as a rustic Gloucestershire "chaw-bacon," with thatch sticking from out his ears. What enthusiasm he had for his new status as the Proper Married Man, he owed to the Lewries' fondness for each other.

  And what enthusiasm he had for Maggie had been born abed with her. How else was there a Little Will in swaddlings, now, if not for prйnuptial passion? Being a practical, commonsensical sort, Bosun's Mate Will Cony knew from long experience that sailors will usually be sailors, far from home, with months between letters or news. Maggie almost kenned that, as any seaman's wife should. As they said on the lower decks… "shouldn'ta joined, if ya can't take a joke!"

  Still, he'd always believed that Lewrie would be more discreet than that. He'd even spoken disparagingly of officers who carried a mort to sea, parading before the love-starved, lust-surly "people" what they could not have. If the little sauce-pot had that much influence on him, though…