Scarlet Fever

by April Hill

  Scarlet Fever

  By

  April Hill

  ©2013 by Blushing Books® and April Hill

  Copyright © 2013 by Blushing Books® and April Hill

  All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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  Hill, April

  Scarlet Fever

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-62750-2153

  Cover Design by edhgraphics.blogspot.com

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.

  Table of Contents:

  Forward

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Ebook Offer

  Blushing Books

  Forward

  In early twentieth century Canada, when the Royal Northwest Mounted Police first arrived to bring law and order to the lawless gold camps, they were “kitted out” in bright red tunics with brass braid and buttons, making them highly visible, and easily distinguishable from the United States Cavalry, which was active in the region, as well.

  The “Mounties” quickly earned a reputation for honesty, bravery, and devotion to duty that endeared them to the peaceful population—and particularly to women. The frontier was a dangerous place, and living conditions for a Mountie were primitive. The pay was poor, but the standards for acceptance into the “Force” were high. A young man seeking to “engage” as a new recruit needed to be tall, clean-cut, in excellent physical condition, and have a thirst for adventure and excitement.

  All of which tended to make the Mounties, as a group, an extremely desirable addition to communities where sober, attractive men of marriageable age were always in short supply. The Mounties soon found themselves in great demand—at parties and balls, at church dances, and at ice cream socials. Anywhere where young women were in need of escorts, or male companionship. The fact that it was virtually impossible for a member of the RNWMP to get permission to marry seemed to make them even more irresistible. Before long, it became popular to refer to a sweet young thing’s hopeless infatuation with a red-coated Mountie with the term, Scarlet Fever. “Have you heard the news?” it might be whispered around town. “Poor Mary Ellen has come down with a terrible case of Scarlet Fever.”

  At that time in history, of course, scarlet fever—the medical scarlet fever— was a disease that had already begun to rage across North America like wildfire, bringing death and heartbreak to millions of families, especially those with young children. But the term continued to be used, and is still common today. When visiting Canada, having your picture made with a handsome Mountie in a crisp scarlet tunic—particularly if you’re a woman— is still the “in thing” to do. Thanks to modern antibiotics, scarlet fever isn’t the terrible threat that it once was, but there’s very little that can be done for a bad crush on a great-looking guy in a bright red tunic you may never see again.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Anne Wilson stood at the shack’s single grimy window and watched a tiny speck in the brilliant blue sky come closer, growing steadily larger until it became what she’d been hoping for— a single-engine plane. She wasn’t crazy about airplanes, especially small ones, but she was well past the point of being picky. If everything went well, she could be back in the United States by tomorrow—unless whoever was coming here to “deal with this unfortunate situation” turned out to be some officious, governmental toady, determined to make a mountain out of a molehill. Corporal O’Brien had already used that annoying phrase, “dealing with this unfortunate situation,” at least two hundred times since she arrived at this godforsaken hellhole. Now, all she wanted was to get home as quickly as possible, and never set foot in another Royal Canadian Mounted Police station. Especially one in the freaking middle of freaking, frozen nowhere, with only short, plump Corporal Michael O’Brien for company.

  When did “Mounties” start looking like cops everywhere else? Anne wondered. Whatever happened to rugged guys like Sergeant Preston of the Yukon, or Renfrew of the Mounted, those tall, handsome men of iron, popular in the comic books of the forties and fifties? Her older brother, Paul, had been collecting vintage comic books for years, and warning his nosy little kid sister that if she so much as touched them, she risked torture, dismemberment, or even something serious. After Paul joined the Army, naturally enough, she’d wasted no time in digging the forbidden comic books out of his closet, and spent the warm, summer afternoons reading the early exploits of Superman, Batman, and the Green Hornet. The “Mountie” stories had been Anne’s favorites, though—possibly because at eleven-going-on-twelve, she was just beginning to form a rough vision of what real “men” should look like, and be like. At eleven, she had already decided upon a career as a world-famous journalist— a tough, hard-bitten reporter, making her way in a man’s world—the real world.

  In young Anne’s daydreams, masked heroes with bulging muscles and superhuman powers didn’t do a thing for her, but rugged outdoorsmen were a different matter entirely. Real men. Intelligent but manly men, capable of wrestling bears and mountain lions, tracking escaped felons through the wilderness, and occasionally pausing long enough to rescue a hard-bitten but astonishingly beautiful female reporter who has fallen (through no fault of her own) into a perilous crevasse in the ice.

  Pudgy, bespectacled RCMP corporal Michael O’Brien just didn’t fit this romantic image at all. As far as Anne could tell, he spent most of his time scribbling reports, and when he wasn’t writing reports, or on the telephone, he was dusting and cleaning everything in sight. Or reading Rudyard Kipling. Record-keeping and obsessive tidiness had apparently replaced wrestling bears and rescuing maidens in distress. But Rudyard Kipling? Who in the name of God read Rudyard Kipling in the year 2013?

  Her promised “escort” had been delayed for three days because of bad weather, and now, as the single engine plane banked right, circled once overhead, and dropped quickly through the morning’s low clouds, Anne felt her stomach clenching up. Nerves, she thought. Nothing to worry about. It’s not like you’re a criminal, or anything. Not a real criminal. What can they do to you, really, except throw you out?

  “Is that for me, do you think?” she asked the young man sitting at the desk. O’Brien had been tense and distracted all day, and now, with the promised reinforcements he had wanted so badly arriving, it surprised her that he seemed not to have heard the drone of the approaching plane.

  He looked up from what he was doing. “I’m sorry. Did you say something?” he asked.

  “There’s a small plane out there, about to land,” Anne explained. “Were you expecting anyone, besides?

  Her question was answered when Corporal O’Brien jumped up from his chair so suddenly that he knocked the stack of papers he’d been working on to the floor. His face seemed to light up. “It has to be the guy from Regina,” he breathed. It sounded to Anne like profound relief, or maybe a heartfelt prayer. And an insult aimed at her, of course. The corporal was transparently eager to get rid of her. At least as eager as she was to see the last of him and his dr
eary little hovel.

  She’d apparently worn out her welcome with the corporal, who had spoken to her in nothing but monosyllables for the last two days—since the incident with the damned book. Before that, in her first twenty-four hours at the post, he’d been polite to the point of being a pain in the ass. Of course, that was before they learned that the plane would be delayed, and before the stupid incident with the telephone and that gigantic book— the incident that had left the luckless corporal with two black eyes and a possibly broken nose. It had also left her in what might be some very deep shit with whoever was aboard that airplane.

  The corporal flung open the door and hurried outside, while Anne waited at the window, watching sullenly as the plane touched down on the ragged length of patched macadam that served as the isolated police post’s landing strip. As the plane rolled to a stop a few yards from the shack, she noticed a faded image of a red maple leaf, and the initials “R.C.M.P.” painted along the length of the fuselage, indicating the aircraft’s official police status. Her heart sank. The plane wasn’t private, and it wasn’t commercial. She was about to be deported—officially.

  A tall man stepped from the cockpit onto the macadam, and paused for a minute or two to speak with the corporal. She had expected—in a worst-case scenario—to be handed over to a governmental nobody. Some low-level, bureaucratic hireling in a pinstriped suit. An unimportant twerp who would deliver a practiced, sanctimonious reprimand about being a good neighbor, and about respecting international borders, and then send her on her way. But the new man on the scene was not a bureaucrat. Another cop, and also RCMP, but outfitted differently than O’Brien. He was dressed almost casually, in a long-sleeved white shirt, dark blue pants with a yellow stripe down each leg, and a pair of high brown boots with laces. As she continued watching, though, the cop reached inside the plane and pulled out a bright red jacket, a holstered revolver wrapped in a brown belt, and a broad-brimmed beige Stetson. Like Smokey the Bear. Not a good sign. Even Anne knew that Canada’s renowned mounted police didn’t wear the full uniform unless there was something going on. Like a parade. Or maybe an official arrest?

  Despite her apprehension, though, she couldn’t help noticing that the new arrival on the scene fit the romantic image from her daydreams far better than Corporal Pudgy O’Brien. Even at this distance, it was obvious that this Mountie was extremely good-looking. Sandy brown hair, cut short, of course. Tall, maybe six-foot four or five, and well built without that “I work out every day at a gym” look that usually turned her off. He took a few moments to slip on the high-necked red tunic and button it, and then started toward the shack, still carrying the pistol and belt. The corporal scurried alongside, doing his best to keep up with the taller man’s long stride. By the time the two men came in the door, the officer in the crimson tunic had strapped on a broad, brown duty belt with a large brass buckle, what appeared to be a case for handcuffs, and a pistol, still in its flapped holster. To Anne, who had never seen a traditionally outfitted Canadian “Mountie” in complete regalia and at close range, the effect was both glamorous, and titillating— and mildly intimidating. To someone with her somewhat-checkered history, uniformed, fully armed policemen often meant trouble.

  She hadn’t expected handcuffs, and certainly not to be taken away at gunpoint. In fact, the only weapon she’d seen so far was a sheathed rifle that hung on the wall behind the corporal’s desk in the shabby little room the corporal insisted upon calling the “guardroom.” Still, according to the corporal, she had broken several Canadian laws, and this new guy already looked annoyed, and more than ready to enforce something. Under less stressful circumstances, though, she would have called him, “drop-dead gorgeous.” Lean and hard-muscled, he towered over both her and the diminutive corporal. Closer now, she could see that he had gray blue eyes, and a square jaw. A comic book hero come to life. Sergeant Preston of the Yukon. Bold, courageous, ruggedly handsome guardian of the frozen North, and defender of women’s honor. Tall, handsome—and definitely pissed off at being here.

  He wore a crown and three chevrons on one sleeve, and on the other sleeve, an arc of three gold stars—signifying, she assumed, a considerably higher rank than the simple blue policemen’s uniform worn by the corporal. After a few moments, and after he had glanced through the file folder the corporal had given him, the officer introduced himself as Staff Sergeant Geoffrey Cameron, RCMP. He was here, he explained curtly, to escort her as far as Regina, where she would be briefly interviewed, and then permitted to leave Canada by any method of transportation she wished, public or private. His tone was clipped and formal. Not unfriendly, exactly, but there was little doubt that the Sergeant had been advised of the incident with the book.

  At this point, Anne began to be annoyed. After all, she didn’t want to be here, in this frozen hellhole, any more than he did—probably even less. “How extremely hospitable of you, Sergeant,” she responded sweetly. “I hope you can imagine my surprise, when I learned that your country is not quite as welcoming to tourists as I had thought.”

  He looked up from what he was reading, and raised one eyebrow. “Our tourists rarely arrive hiding in the hold of a commercial vessel, Miss Wilson, carrying falsified documents, and disguised as a member of the opposite sex.”

  “I’ve already explained all of that nonsense to the corporal, here,” she responded irritably. “At tedious length, and to the very rude person with whom I spoke on the phone, as well. I’m a journalist, and I was simply attempting to document a case of illegal whaling. The hunting of whales is a disgusting thing, and needs to be exposed.”

  “Agreed,” he said.

  “Then, why the hell have I been fucking arrested?” she demanded. “And held here like a common criminal?”

  “You haven’t been arrested. I’ve been sent here, in Her Majesty’s service, to escort an uninvited trespasser from the country, and to do it as diplomatically as possible, in order to avoid an international incident. Since you appear to have arrived here unarmed, and without apparent hostile intent, my orders are to simply remove you— without undue force, and with a minimum of political uproar.”

  “But I’m an American citizen,” she said.

  He gave a deep sigh. “Why is it I knew that?”

  “I take it from that remark that you don’t like Americans,” she observed coldly.

  “I have nothing against Americans. It’s spoiled brats I dislike, whatever their nationality. Brats who openly violate another nation’s borders, at a time when terrorism is a genuine issue, and then expect their crimes to be regarded as pranks. I should also mention that the Queen frowns on it when one of those same spoiled brats chooses to clobber one of her policemen while he’s merely trying to do his duty.” He pointed to the large pile of luggage at Anne’s feet. “Are all of those bags yours?”

  “Yes,” she replied, knowing what was coming.

  “I never realized that stowaways were permitted so much luggage.”

  Anne flushed. “Most of that is camera equipment,” she growled. “And the fat one is my sleeping bag. For your information, Sergeant Whatever Your Fucking Name Is, I was not a stowaway. Not exactly, anyway. I had what you might call a shared living arrangement with one of the crew.”

  He raised the other eyebrow.

  “Stop that!” she yelled. “What happened was simply this. I gave the damned ship’s cook three hundred bucks to let me stay in his cabin, so I could shoot a few pictures from the porthole whenever I could manage to do it without being seen. But then, when we were stopped by the coast guard, the fucking sonuvabitch got scared, and ratted me out.”

  “Perhaps the effing sonuvabitch didn’t think himself properly rewarded for all his help,” the sergeant suggested in an affable tone, but changing the offensive adjective. “After months at sea aboard a commercial whaler, with the constant stench of rotting whale blubber, no female companionship or other creature comforts, money isn’t always the most sought-after currency.” He grin
ned. “But, then, I suspect you’ve already discovered that.”

  “Very funny,” she snapped. “But you’re right. The jerk spent more time making slimy moves on me than he did cooking. The crew was getting ready to throw him overboard when we got stopped by your coast guard, or whatever you call them. They took me off the ship, arrested me, and brought me here.”

  “The CCG’s duties don’t include arresting people for illegal border crossings,” he explained. He exchanged a wink with the young corporal. “The truth is, we sometimes refer to them as the Department of Fish and Ships—always with enormous respect, of course.”

  She stared. “Are you telling me I’m not actually under arrest? Legally, I mean?”

  “That’s correct. Technically, you’ve merely been detained, for your own safety, and for our temporary convenience. I apologize for any discomfort you may have experienced, although I understand the corporal did volunteer his bunk, and the use of his admittedly primitive sanitary facilities. Indoor plumbing is sometimes more trouble than it’s worth, up here.”

  “It was all lovely,” she snarled. “I can’t remember when I’ve spent a more delightful few days.”

  She could tell that the handsome Sergeant was trying to suppress a smile. “I’m very sorry if the accommodations weren’t what you were accustomed to on the ship from which you were removed,” he told her. “According to the CCG chap with whom I spoke, the heads on the Mari Bertrand had been backed up for more than a week, and the cook in question was reported to be suffering from the sort of disease we don’t normally discuss in mixed company. In any case, I’m afraid the weather’s about to take a turn for the worse, so if you’ll please gather up your things, I’d like to get started back as soon as possible.”