The Demon Dagger of Devonshire leaped into the carriage and ordered the bound and gagged driver to make haste to
Can that driver drive bound and gagged? Sure. Reins aren't much to hold, just some leather straps.
Where to? Ah . . .
Dover by morning!
"My relatives will hunt you down, Sir," the fair Arianiola warned, "for this impertinence."
"You will be sorry if they do."
"Oh, and why is that?"
"Because, my charming renegade, I am about to change your life, to sweep you to the stars."
With that, he
Just how far can we go here? Better scan a couple more sex scenes from some of these hot numbers over here. Let's see . . . talk, talk, talk . . . escape. . . more talk. . . servants talking -- hey, where s the boudoir business when you need it? You re falling down on the job, ladies. Come on, inspire me. A kiss, for three paragraphs? Get real. Okay, I'll show you how to do it.
With that, he grasped Ariania's shoulder and smashed her into his manly arms. Instantly she responded to the awesome masculine charisma that radiated from the muscular form of the Demon Dagger of Devonshire. She was a wildcat. She began purring and spitting in pretended disgust, but the Demon Dagger knew what effect his physique had on women of all kinds, from tavern wench to top-drawer duchess.
Soon she was gasping and undoing the buttons on his
Is it doublet in this period? Why not?
doublet. Meanwhile the Dagger thrust his powerful tongue into her mouth, causing her to moan.
And still the carriage driven by the bound and gagged driver drove on through the night, as lightning snarled in the sky and fireworks exploded on the cushions within.
Ariana had no chance. She was putty
Did they have putty then? Dont want to strain the judges' credulity here.
in his maddeningly sensuous hands, and soon he had worked her clothes into a lumpy pile on the carriage floor, as his own soon joined them, and they were joined in a jolting, mad dash over the moors.
Finally he had mercy on her and revealed the mightiest weapon in his arsenal. She seemed much impressed, if not surprised. And so the wild ride went, in a hurtle of two hearts through the night, two bodies twined by impetuous desire and true love found on the floor of the Baron's best carriage.. ..
When the moon was a pale an albino pumpkin in the dawn, the carriage rested at the brink of the white cliffs of Dover, the steeds weary and drooping, the sweet Arianail weary, the Demon Dagger of Dover drooping. The confiscated coachman had long since tumbled to some wayside rest, and the lovers lay happy and satisfied in each other's arms.
Bluebirds swept up into the clouds as the waves crashed on the shore below, and the Demon Dagger's vengeful heart knew peace for the first time in years, now that the carriage had stopped, the impetuous passion had lulled, and the lovely Ariania was safe in his arms. She was forever safe from his vengeance now, if not from his charms.
How do I end one of these scenes? Or a so-called "proposal, " for that matter? Hey, the dawn is good enough. The next chapter can always start with tomorrow. Now to run it through spellcheck, and make sure the dumb broad's name is spelled the same way twice. Think I'II do the next one in real time.
Chapter 30
Undressed Rehearsal
From the wings, the Incredible Hunk pageant set looked almost as imposing as the MGM Grand's Emerald City layout.
White pillars recalling the glory that was Rome towered over a squat medieval arch of rough gray stone. Next to Gothicland stood Westernworld, represented by the crude wooden supports of a livery stable, complete with haystack. The late Cheyenne's pageant getup, and his horse, would have been in clover here.
Temple studied the construction from the rear, then promptly nicknamed the three pose-down settings "the Good, the Bad and the Ugly" from left to right: first the vaguely celestial soaring white columns; the definitely down and dirty gray stone keep; and finally a barn scene about as romantic as a roll in the barbed wire.
Temple saw that her vaguely medieval costume (and the lamb-to-the-slaughter in it) doomed her to the creepy Gothic dungeon. Lacey's sleazy harem silks fit the schizophrenic associations of faux white marble: classical purity versus the decadence that was ancient Rome. Quincey, the gilt-edged saloon girl, would inherit the haymow. Temple didn't envy her comfort quotient.
Studying the scene of the imminent forthcoming crime--a dress rehearsal for the pageant pose-down--Temple shuddered. The architecturally eclectic set resembled a Hollywood back lot awaiting an invasion of Barbarian hordes. Or perhaps invading accountants.
She tiptoed closer in her costume's odious flat-heeled stretch slippers (discount store glitz in bronze-metallic fabric). Yup, as she had feared, the Gothic niche included a pseudo-stone windowseat on which she could be wooed in endlessly contorted positions. At least a pair of black velvet pillows would make the condemned woman's fate a tad more cushy while she was slowly crushed to death.
"Look at that neat wood post," an awed voice breathed beside her. "I can work with that."
Temple turned to face a stage struck Quincey. "You actually look forward to this farce? Why are you doing it? And how did you get chosen, anyway?"
"Step-weasel." Quincey answered the last question first, while teasing the wispy tendrils at her ears into spit-curls.
"Are you referring to Crawford Buchanan?"
"Please! No names. Just thinking about the creep is awful enough. Though I must say that Step-Daddy Dearest did come through and get me this great gig."
"Now I know how, but why?"
"Why are you doin' this?" Quincey flicked sullen lashes over Temple's costume.
"Because--" The truth would never do. Maybe a half-truth geared to the audience would serve. "I'm mad at my boyfriend."
"Cool." Quincey snapped her everpresent gum.
"Actually"--Temple modified her previous statement with twenty-five percent more frankness--
"boyfriends."
"Cooler." Quincey eyed Temple with new respect, then hiked her knee-length skirt and vamoosed into the shadowed wings, leaving Temple no wiser about her sixteen-year-old motives. Temple suspected that it had much to do with being--what else?-- cool.
Actually, Temple was pretty cool herself. Here she was, about to undergo a serial pose-down, and she was no nearer a solution to Cheyenne's murder in these very wings than three days before. If she were playing the child's game where onlookers shouted "Hot!" and "Cold!" to guide someone in finding a missing item, everyone would be yelling "Frigid!" at Temple.
She shuddered again, this time at the iciness of her mental image. If she began this pose-down charade in her current mood, everyone would be yelling "Frigid!" at her anyway.
But don't think of the ignominy to come, she told herself. Don't even think of England. Think about committing murder.
She strolled alongside the entry ramp at stage left, then mounted the four steep steps at the end.
Troy Tucker was right. This height was enough to give a midget hubris. The burgundy curtain that protected this area from the audience view also put anybody standing against it into shadow. So this route would be murder to negotiate in the semi-dark of a rehearsal, given the usual stampede for places backstage. Yet the murderer must have used it. Temple imagined a horse beside her on the stage level, about to enter, its rider's back within easy striking distance.
Death was usually symbolized as the Dark Rider. Horseman, pass on by. This time death had lain in wait to strike, and the dark rider passing by had died.
The killer must have taken the fatal arrow from Cheyenne's quiver before this point, even before the victim-to-be slung its leather strap across his chest. It would be easy to pluck an arrow from a quiver at this height, but the action would have alerted Cheyenne. So the murder had been premeditated by at least a few minutes. Still, Temple sensed an indecent haste in the act. It had been risky, even desperate.
Was someone trying to silence Cheyenne? Or was the s
cene of the crime, the pageant, simply a distraction? Was Charlie Moon killed--not his alter ego Cheyenne, the pageant contestant and model--
but Charlie Moon, for some ancient, unrelated reason?
Crew members rushed by below Temple, never glancing up at her alongside the burgundy curtain.
Anyone preoccupied with the thousand hectic details of a large-cast production, Temple knew from her Guthrie Theatre experience, was far too harried to notice anyone else's actions.
So the murderer had participated in such events before, or had witnessed backstage action and knew how to use the situation. Great! That still left the cast of Ben Hur as suspects.
Could a scurrying crew member harbor an unsuspected motive, like the volunteer costume ladies, who had dubbed themselves the "Wardrobe Witches"?
Another bustled by, a prototypical grandmother unkindly described as dumpling-bland and nondescript, wearing the comfortable, concealing sweat-suit uniform some older women adopt as protective coloring. This edition was an ivory knit ensemble with a rearing navy unicorn etched upon the chest.
Perfect look for a murderer.
"Oh, my God," the woman was muttering, looking everywhere but up at Temple, thus proving how easily one could lurk backstage. "What am I gonna do?"
Temple never could resist a problem-solving challenge. Still unnoticed, she ran along the ramp on her stealthy-soled slippers (what had the murderer worn for footwear?), and dashed down the end steps to intercept this female version of Alice's befuddled, ever-tardy White Rabbit.
"Is something wrong?" Temple asked.
"Huh?" The woman almost collided with Temple, then eyed her costume in confusion. "Wrong? Hell, yes. You're all dressed and ready to go. Oh, what am I gonna do? There's no time."
Temple resisted the temptation to hunt for a rabbit hole. "What's wrong?"
"One of the boys--the contestants--he--oh, my--split out his costume and we have to start the rehearsal in a couple minutes and he's on first!"
"Isn't there an emergency-fix basket in the dressing room?"
"Huh?" Brown eyes set in maroon bezels of fatigue blinked dolefully. "We're not using the regular dressing rooms."
"Where is the side-splitting hunk?"
The woman gestured wildly toward the opposite wings. Temple took off in that direction, long brocade skirts swishing. Behind her came the bunny-trail thump-thumps of the hapless Wardrobe Witch.
"We're all assigned certain contestants to dress," the woman behind Temple chattered in breathless relief now that she had found a partner in panic. "We're responsible. It's not as if this is the actual pageant, but Mr. Dove demands promptness, and poor Lance is competing for the first time and so nervous. If he misses his cue, or worse, looks laughable, it will simply shatter his confidence for the actual pageant. Poor fellow--"
"Listen. If I can find that basket, and I know there's one somewhere, everything will be fine."
The object of their concern came into view like a lachrymose landmark: a tall young man wearing a white, full-sleeved shirt open to the navel. He was standing in pale relief against the backdrop, watching for his wardrobe witch like some Romeo aching for a glimpse of Juliet. He hardly glanced at Temple, which, given her lusty wench's getup, was a testimony either to his anxiety-level, or his sexual preferences.
"Follow me," Temple said briskly, passing him without a pause to snatch her duffel bag from the floor and continue offstage. Now the clump-clump of boots trailed the sneaker-muted thump-thumps of the Wardrobe Witch.
What a parade they must make! The Wench, the Witch and the Wardrobe. And the luckless Wearer of the torn-asunder Wardrobe.
Temple pattered down the concrete stairs to the basement and dashed into the Four Queens'
dressing room. Last night she had automatically noticed just what they needed.
In the corner where dressing tables and mirrors met sat an innocuous basket overflowing with odds and ends--extra false eyelashes and fingernails, glue, safety and bobby pins, spare feathers and. . .
viola, as we say in freshman French! A tidy sewing kit with scissors, needles and a rainbow variety of threads.
"Here!" She grabbed the kit and held it out to. .. "What's your name?" she asked the Wardrobe Witch.
"Mary Lou. And this is Lance." The hunk waited diffidently at the dressing-room door, head hung.
Temple nodded, thrusting the show-saving kit at Mary Lou, whose hands, even now wringing before the prancing unicorn on her sweatshirt, abruptly vanished behind her back.
"Oh, no. No, I couldn't," she demurred, bit her lip and backed away as if Temple was proffering Cleopatra's asp. "I can't . . . sew.
Mary Lou almost looked embarrassed, as well she should--a woman her age afraid of a little needle and thread.
Exasperated, Temple turned to Lance, getting a better gander at the hapless hunk. He was the usual good-looks-gifted, weight-lifted he-man hero with thick, wavy, coffee-colored shoulder-length hair Cher would envy. And, at a raw twenty-one or -two, he was one of the youngest contestants.
Mary Lou was backing all the way out of the room now. "I'll wait. Outside." She eyed a big-dialed watch whose pink plastic strap cut into her chubby wrist. "Hurry! Lance is due onstage in only a couple of minutes."
"So am I!" Temple said.
And she did loathe late entrances, for rehearsals, and especially for dress rehearsals, even when she loathed the forthcoming onstage follies even more.
No time to wonder why the Wardrobe Witch had deserted her post. The show must go on! Temple pulled her glasses from the case in her duffel bag.
"Where's the problem?" she asked Lance, selecting a needle with a large, easily penetrated eye and hunting for white thread.
His odd silence in a crisis made her look up.
Lance was looking down.
Temple looked down.
Oh.
She began looking for black thread, and lots of it.
A seam in Lance's black leather like pants had split open. Temple could see why, now that his nether regions were no longer lost against the black backdrop of a curtain. The skin-tight legs laced up open sides. Apparently an enthusiastic, or nervous, lacer--like Mary Lou--had overtightened the lacing.
Something had to give, and had, in the most unfortunate location: a seven-inch seam along the front fly.
"I can take 'em off," Lance suggested lamely, eyeing Temple's glasses with visible doubt.
"No time." But he knew that already, else why would he be so pale and wan, prithee? "Stand here."
The overhead light was thinner than chicken consumme, and theatrical makeup lights didn't shine past the dressing table edge. So Temple backed him tight against the table, knotted her double thread-end four secure times and went to her beskirted knees. At least the yardage cushioned the hard floor.
Needle poised to strike, she analyzed the truly prodigious problem. The needle had to pierce the fabric at an angle in order to suture the seam shut. Given the nature of the costume and the site of the split, any too-vigorous thrust ran the risk of spearing the wearer rather than the wearing apparel, and in a place best left unstimulated in any way, pleasant or painful.
Temple sighed. Lance said nothing.
Like national disasters, theatrical crises bring out the best in people, a neighborly no-nonsense coping. Each participant braced to ignore the task's inescapably delicate nature.
Lance gazed around the dressing room, his eyes on everything but the site of the tragedy and Temple's needle.
Temple concentrated on the task at hand, rather than its social ramifications. She had to draw the straining fabric closer, then quickly slice the needle through one side and out the other before tension sprung it apart again.
If the material hadn't been a somewhat sleazy leather substitute, she couldn't have done it at all. Still, the fabric was tough enough to resist the needle point.
"Two minutes, folks!" boomed Danny Dove's brisk, martinet voice from the dressing-room speaker set high on the wall. He meant it.<
br />
They both jumped, then froze.
Temple drove the needle into the next stitch, trying not to grunt and grit her teeth as she forced the tip through the resistant fabric. Grunting might make the guy nervous.
She couldn't help speculating idly as she struggled to close the gap in the rended seam. Rock stars were known to bolster their crotches with socks, just as women had used handkerchiefs in their bras long before the lingerie industry had thoughtfully provided the proper inflationary devices.
Did Incredible Hunk candidates resort to such cheesy stratagems? If so, dumping any stuffing would make her task much easier, and swifter to accomplish. Surely Lance would have thought of that, and suggested any sacrificeable flotsam to throw overboard in an emergency like this. Then again, Temple would hardly toss her Wonderbra at a male tailor were the situation reversed, so she could only . . . er, wonder.
And if this was not a case of artificial amplification, the interesting question became just how well-endowed Incredible Hunks were. Certainly considering the conundrum in long, Latinate words kept the speculations on a disinterested, academic plane. Plane ... or fancy.
Temple's needle plunged on. She also explored black thoughts about amateur dressers who are not professional enough to perform awkward but necessary theatrical tasks. Grandmothers who were far better equipped than she to deal dispassionately with strange young men--rather, young men who were strangers--and the more private parts of their anatomy. Grandmothers who had diapered and potty-trained and done heaven-knows-what-else and should be as asexual as amoebas by now.
Grandmothers who got eaten by big bad wolves, but grandmothers who might turn the tables on the wolves, too. For grandmothers also read--and sometimes wrote--romance novels, and had once starred in a few sensual scenes of their own (or they wouldn't be grandmothers and supposedly beyond the socio-sexual fray, would they?). Grandmothers who were still earthy enough to enjoy being around handsome men young enough to be their grandsons, and canny enough to duck the issue when it came to confronting the underlying roots of their admiration.
Midnight Louie 05-Cat in a Diamond Dazzle Page 31
