“I was held in a house. I was left there alone. My lady was taken somewhere else.” She looked up at the general. “I swear, sir, I do not know where they took her.”
“And who is ‘they’?”
“Men. I don’t know who they were.” Her expression lay somewhere between fear and guilt.
“Soldiers?”
“No, not soldiers.”
“Accents? British? Colonists? Come on girl, speak up!”
“They were Americans, sir. They had accents like mine. There were three of them and they wore black hoods over their heads so I could not see their faces.” She looked down at her feet. “Please sir, believe me, that is all I know.” She looked back up at the general, now perched on the edge of his desk. “I was given a note for you, sir.” She reached under her clothes.
Instinctively, Sebastian grabbed her, turning her body toward him. If this was a ruse to kill the general, Sebastian was well-trained to act. In the tussle, Annabella dropped a folded piece of paper. She lifted her eyes to him. He tried to convey his mortification and apologies. She bent down to pick up the note and handed it to General Strathmore.
He scanned it, then, grunting and growling, read it a second time. “I don’t recognize the hand.” The general looked sharply at Annabella. “Who wrote this note, girl?”
“Please, sir. I do not know, sir.” She was trembling.
He eyed her intently again. “What sort of house were you held in?”
“A big house, sir.”
“Big? How big? Two stories like this house?”
“I think there were two stories, sir.”
One side of the general’s mouth curled sinisterly. “Good, good,” he muttered. He waved his hand toward the door. “You may leave me now, Hawkins. The girl may still have some usefulness left in her.”
Sebastian saw terror flit across the girl’s face. This was precisely the situation he had wanted to avoid.
“No,” the general said, reconsidering. “I have too much work to do here now. Take her to Colonel Fritzlar. His men will know what to do with her.”
Sebastian was not going to deliver her into the hands of the Hessians. “General Strathmore, sir?”
“Yes, lieutenant?” he grumbled.
“My men and I need a maid-of-all-work.”
The general looked up from his papers, glancing over at Annabella and then back at Sebastian. “Go on, take her. I’m sure your men will find a use for her.”
Sebastian led Annabella out of the house as calmly as he could. Once outside, he breathed a sigh of relief.
“Thank you, sir. I don’t know how to repay you.”
“Not in the way you’re thinking, miss,” Sebastian snapped. He shook sense back into his head. “I apologize. Look, I really could use a maid. I run a very disciplined barrack, so you will not have to fear for your safety. Unless you wish to go back home. You’re from Chesterton, aren’t you?”
“My mother sold me to General Strathmore, sir. I don’t think she wants me back.”
“Sold you! That’s impossible!” Sebastian looked down at her. She probably had no idea what really transpired between her mother and the general. She did not seem like she wanted to return home, though. He glanced around the yard. The coach was still there. The Strathmore groom had disappeared a long time ago and his duties were never reassigned. Sebastian’s cadet was positioned nearby with the lieutenant’s horse.
“Do you have anything in the coach?” he asked.
“Only my box, sir.”
Sebastian called for his ensign and motioned for him to dismount. “This is Miss Rogers. She will be joining our staff. Please fetch her box from the coach and bring it to the barrack. I will need your horse as well.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sebastian turned to Annabella. “You will ride behind me.” She looked so relieved and yet still so fragile. “Don’t worry, miss, you’ll be fine.” He tried his best to sound reassuring.
* * * * *
“And I would love you all the day,
Every night would kiss and play,
If with me you’d fondly stray
Over the hills, and far away.”
Clara had a tendency to sing songs Paul had never heard. And quote poetry, too. It all sounded like Shakespeare to him since he had read so little of the stuff. He didn’t read novels either, as she clearly did. Really, the only works anybody ever read these days were political tracts against monarchy and for independence.
Clara’s silliness and frivolity accentuated the fact that she was only nineteen years old and had been pulled from her carefree noble life and thrust into a war zone. Paul loved her innocence, her playfulness. He truly loved her, but he knew there could never be anything lasting between them. He had simply seen too much of life to ever recapture such an ingenuous state.
It was morning and they lay in bed, casually fondling and cuddling, naked despite autumn’s chill. Annabella had left the night before. Redmond was most likely already with the patriots up north. It wouldn’t be long before Clara would have to be returned to her husband. Paul had demanded quite a bit of money for her with the stipulation that the general should pay a portion as a sign of good will. It was that portion which would cover the general’s debt to the brothel, and then some. But, after he got that first payment, did he really have to let Clara go? He nuzzled against her shoulder.
She turned her face to his and kissed his lips, lightly, tenderly. The heat rose in his body, pumping more blood to his half-hard cock. He moved over her to frantically feast on her mouth, then pulled back. She was flushed, her face suffused with wanton desire. His needy cock twitched.
“Love,” he began softly, trying to find the right words. “I think we have waited long enough. I want to make love to you. Properly.” He was surprised by his own bashfulness.
She stared at him with wide eyes. “Yes, please, Paul. Yes.”
Her plaintive tone humbled him. Suddenly, he was a boy again experiencing his first carnal union, except this time he would know precisely what to do. His fingers found her wet and aroused, but she had to be more than ready for him. He did not want to hurt her.
He kissed her mouth succulently as he massaged her clit. “This is for you, sweet. Let me pleasure you.”
His motions were languorous, punctuated with provocative teases to rouse her only to pull back when she least expected it. She giggled at his game and pecked at his lips lovingly.
His stroked her silky folds, finally daring to touch the entrance to her feminine passage. He slowly inserted a finger. She held his eyes as he did so, biting her lower lip, then nodding in assent. His thumb worked her excited nub as he slid in a second finger. She closed her eyes, lost in the sensual indulgence of his touch, her neck and shoulders arching against the pillow. She cried out as her libidinous muscles clenched around his fingers, pulsing, wanting more, inviting him inside her.
He was achingly rampant. He moved to lie between her legs. His cock in his palm, he slid it through her wetness, then aimed precisely. He took his time as he pushed in, luxuriating in her squeezing palpitations. When he was fully seated inside her, he let himself relish in the thrill of her body before continuing with his lover’s motions.
She was tight, unused, so he moved cautiously, kissing her, whispering encouragements, until their bodies undulated as one. He pulled back a little to gaze at her. Tears filled her eyes and trickled down the sides of her face to the pillow.
A sharp stab of remorse pierced his heart. He stopped. “Love? Am I hurting you?”
She sniffled and wiped her tears. “No, no. Paul, it’s wonderful.” She cupped his cheek with her palm. “Sweet, it has never been this good for me before.” She smiled reassuringly, her expression a mixture of joy and lust.
He resumed his rhythmic tempo, slowly increasing his pace, her pulsating passage gripping him. She held his gaze until her head fell back and her body jerked and arched in climax. Her slick muscles grabbed him, demanding more, clenching intensely. He
r head thrashed against the pillow, her nails dug into his shoulders, and she let out an orgiastic wail to the heavens.
He was at the precipice of desire, wanting so much to remain at the point just before the peak, but he would not be able to hold on much longer. She herself was lost in ecstasy, her writhing body continuing to grasp him with such determined force that he had to follow. He pushed his limits, thrusting inside her until his body began its release, then, at the last possible moment, he pulled out with a howling cry and shot his seed onto her belly.
He collapsed beside her, panting and laughing, more satiated and drained than he had ever been from the act. She smiled, staring at the wood beams of the ceiling, slowing her breaths. She lifted her head and looked at her belly, tentatively touching the milky fluid pooled there and just beginning to drip down her sides.
“Why did you not stay inside me?” she asked with genuine naiveté.
He propped himself on his elbow and played with the damp brown curls that framed her face. “To prevent you from becoming with child.” His fingers wandered capriciously over her rosy skin. “Although, as your husband does not know you are no longer pregnant, I suppose the precaution was unnecessary.” He pecked her lips. “Imagine my son growing up as a viscount’s heir.” He pulled a corner of the comforter over and dabbed at her stomach.
Clara searched his eyes. “Paul, do you love me?”
He had been expecting the question. Of course he did, but not in the schoolgirl way she loved him. “I worship you, my lady,” he said trailing kisses across her skin. “I desire you. I want to pleasure you. That is all I know of love.”
She feigned disappointment. “Your brothel has jaded you against such a divine sentiment.” She giggled as he grabbed her by the waist and playfully nibbled on her neck.
“Your husband would love what a little whore I have made of you.”
She tensed. “Paul,” she whispered as if someone could hear. “I don’t want to go back to him. I can’t go back to him.” She sighed. “When we married he made a stipulation. I could not return home to England until I bore him two sons. Sons, mind you. It had to be male children. So I’m stuck here and won’t be able to return home to my family for years. I hate this place. I hate the American colonies. And I hate the war.” Her eyes dewed with tears. “I want to go back home to England.” She held his face in her hands. “And I want you to come with me.”
Paul inhaled deeply, gathering his thoughts. “Clara, I cannot go back to England. There is nothing for me there.” He took her hand and kissed the palm. “My life is here in these colonies. Here I am somebody important, I’m successful, and I can do what I want. Over there, I am merely the son of a cobbler.”
“Where are you from originally?”
“A small village near Birmingham—you’ve never heard of it, trust me,” he said when she raised her eyebrows inquisitively. “Like I said, my father was a cobbler, my mother’s folk were tenant farmers. I just didn’t have the farming or shoe-making blood.” He drew a finger between her breasts to her belly button. “I wanted adventure.” He gave her a little smack on the hip. “When I was fifteen, I went to Liverpool to make my fortune, as they say. There I worked on the docks, eventually taking a job aboard a slave ship. Brutal business, that is. The way they treat those people. Like animals. I thought another company would be better, but they’re all the same. After two different runs with two different companies I stayed on in the colonies and found my way up here. I realized that everywhere I went there were whores. Men just need women. So I figured that would be a good business. I had learned a bit about bindings and shackles and such aboard the ships, so I gave my whorehouse a little bit of a difference. But, I treat my girls well and they stay with me.”
She looked at him in silent amazement and wonder.
“Clara, what do you have waiting for you back home?”
“My mother, my father—he’s an earl. My friends. And my brother.” Her voice quavered. “We’re very close.”
“If you go home you will have deserted your husband. I’m sure he will seek redress.”
“My husband is an adulterer—”
“As are you, love,” he reminded gently.
“So cannot we be divorced?” she huffed. “What about your American laws? Is it possible to divorce here?”
Paul sighed. “I really don’t know the answer to that.” He chuckled. Sam Taylor had studied law before the war. “But I do know someone who might know the answer to that question.” He twisted a lock of her silky honey-brown hair around his finger. Sam. Now there was a man well-suited to this intelligent, beautiful, young woman.
“Why should a foolish marriage vow,
Which long ago was made,
Oblige us to each other now,
When passion is decayed?”
“That’s not Shakespeare is it?”
“No, silly,” she said, laughing. “It’s Dryden.”
Yes, Sam would be perfect. “Clara, you must realize that returning to England is very difficult, given the war. It would not be easy for an English girl to gain passage on an American or French ship. And, if you tried to get aboard an English vessel, they would simply hold you and alert your husband. Plus, even if you did get on board any ship, you would be faced with the possibility of a battle at sea or a pirate attack. It is simply too dangerous.”
“We could bribe the crew of an English ship.”
“With what money? That would have to be quite a sum for a ship’s captain to double-cross your husband.”
She hesitated for just a second. “Before I left to go to Manhattan Island, I sewed some of my jewelry in my stays. I had thought that if I were widowed, I would have something to barter for passage back to England.”
Paul sighed. Clara was from an aristocratic family, and most likely her jewels were worth quite a sum.
“And there’s my ring.” She tugged off the gold band from her fourth finger. “My wedding ring must be worth something.”
He took the proffered ring. It was simple, plain, not the sort of thing a wealthy man gives to a woman he loves. Nondescript so as to be almost untraceable. “Let me think about this, love.” He put the ring on the bedside table. “You should know that Annabella left last night to deliver the ransom note. It won’t be long until we receive the first payment. We’ll head to patriot territory then.”
She giggled. “‘Patriot’.”
Paul pulled her close. When the time came, it would be very difficult to let her go.
Chapter Nine
Paul threw off the covers. It was far too warm for a late October morning, although it seemed they had overslept. The room was too bright for dawn. Next to him, Clara lay sound asleep but had also tossed back the counterpane. Only as his body roused from its usual drowsiness did he realize the kitchen smelled like smoke. He looked out the window. The brothel was in flames.
Strathmore.
“Clara, Clara,” he said shaking her, his voice urgent. “You have to get up now, love. You have to get dressed. We have to leave.”
“What?” she said sleepily. Once she saw the eerie light coming through the window she sat up with a jolt.
She dressed as quickly as a woman with a complicated wardrobe could. Paul was dressed in a flash. He strapped his knife belt around his waist, then grabbed his pistol and cartridge box.
Clara sidled up next to him as he peered out the window, his pistol at the ready. The brothel was fully engulfed, flames licking through a ghost of its structure. “Shouldn’t we leave?” she said anxiously.
“Not yet. We should make sure it’s safe.”
“Paul, the fire is quite close—”
“Ethan has been staying in the house. That boy is far too responsible and capable to let a fire get out of control like this. Something is very wrong.” He fell silent as he scanned the scene before him. “Just as I thought,” he said gruffly. “Soldiers. British soldiers.”
He pulled Clara away from the window and against the door. He watched
as two soldiers passed the kitchen building and walked toward the blacksmith’s shop. He took the belt with the knife and sheath from around his waist and handed it to her.
“Wear this, love, and wait here.” As Clara buckled the knife at her waist under the drape of her overskirt, Paul opened the door slowly, stepped outside, then closed the door behind him. He walked to the corner of the building, then around the next corner, always looking around to make sure the enemy was not hiding. He returned inside, took her hand in his, and hurried away, closing the door behind them as if the little outbuilding had not been disturbed by occupants.
They went past the herb garden, behind the building, toward the woods. Paul’s plan was to head west for a few miles, then head up north to patriot-controlled territory. Any soldiers who followed them would be surrounded and probably killed.
A blood-curdling scream in the distance stopped him cold.
He urged Clara behind a tree and surveyed his property to find the source of the cry, hoping, praying desperately it was not Ethan. With a soothing word, he left Clara where she was and, from the cover of the woods, searched the scene before him.
And then he saw Ethan.
He was bound and shackled to a hitching post along the side of the big house, the heavy chain attached to the iron ball hung down his back. The sight was sickening, the work of a madman. Ethan would only be free once the post burned, but would be killed by the smoke and flames well before then. Paul had to save him.
He ran back to Clara.
“Love, it’s Ethan. I have to go.” He grabbed her hand and looked deeply in her eyes. “Stay here, right here, and watch me. Once I am no longer in your sight, start to count to three hundred. Count steadily. If I am not back in view by then, I want you to run. Head this direction.” He pointed into the woods. “It’s west. Keep walking until you think it is noontime. Then go to your right. You’ll be heading north. You want to try to get to Fort Revolution. When you get there, talk to Captain Samuel Taylor. Tell him you know me. Tell him you want to go home, but you need to wait for me. I will find you there.”
Her wide eyes stared at him, utterly terrified. “Yes, Paul,” was all she said.
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