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Duty and Oysters (Part 2) by Jedishampoo |
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Duty and Oysters (Part 2) By: Jedishampoo Rating: R overall For: The Hhafterhours Secret Santa Challenge. Suzanna requested Orrock, an Admiral’s daughter, Opposites, Oysters, sweet and steamy.
***
Chapter 4: Oysters, and Duty
Mrs. B was right, it was only a couple more miles of goodish road before she called on him to make a turn onto a small, tree-lined drive marked with a sign saying "Sandy-Lane Cottage."
"Home, sweet, home," she said.
Slightly cast down at the words but unwilling to bear it of himself, Charles eased the horses onto the lane handsomely. "Is Admiral Richards at home, ma’am? If it’s not imposing, I’d be honored to be introduced, and pay my respects."
"Papa doesn’t live here," she said. "He has a house a few miles away, but he’s been in Dover for weeks, assisting with the Fencible Service. That’s why I was obliged to meet the convoy. I live here with my servants, and have for years. Another unladylike trait I’ve acquired during my life, along with direct speaking, is a desire for independence!"
No admiral-- Charles couldn’t decide if that was a good thing, or a bad thing. He couldn’t ruminate on it for long-- soon enough he found himself needing to pay attention to his driving. Despite having few leaves the little wood surrounding the cottage cast quite a bit of shade, and the way was narrow and darkish. Even as slowly as he was driving, he didn’t see the sharp, white rocks until they’d appeared seemingly out of nowhere. The horses nipped around them. He hauled short on the reins with a startled "whoa!" but he was too late.
A loud crack like a spar parting ways followed, and then a short, jerky list of the carriage. A quick jump down and unloading of passengers showed that luckily no one had been thrown or hurt; the carriage had only caught the edge of the row of rocks-- buried, it seemed, in the near-middle of the cottage’s circular drive!
The wheel had broken, how badly Charles did not know. He’d just bent down to check it over when a very decidedly fat Molly in a mobcap and man’s poacher’s jacket came thumping down the drive, screaming.
"Dickie! Dickie, you eejit! You’ve gone and cracked Miss’s head, for sure! Lord Almighty, pray she ain’t dead--"
"Mary!" Mrs. B, in a stern voice Charles had not heard before, cut off the woman’s howls. "My head is not cracked, so please belay your caterwauling. Did Dickie do this?"
"Oh, Mary, tell me please it ain’t the Miss!" A new voice, hoarse and male, had joined the melee. "I warned her, I think--"
"Dickie, you did not." Mrs. B’s voice was still calm. She cast a quick amused glance at Charles, then turned to the newcomer. "Now be quiet for a moment while I introduce this gentleman-- make your salute, Dickie, this is Lieutenant Orrock. Lieutenant Orrock, this is Dickie Dalham, my manservant, a retired seaman."
"Begging yer parding, Sir," the man said, and lowered his fist from his forehead, revealing a liver-spotted oldster to make even Righteous Jenkins look like a mere pup. The man wrung his hands, still trying to explain. "Miss Delphine, I was sure I’d told you I’d done it but p’raps I didn’t. Them Frogs is coming any day, and I know I told you I wanted to build a trap--"
Mrs. B-- Miss Delphine, here-- patted the old man on the shoulder, halting his senile confusion. "Not to worry; no one is dead, thankfully. No more booby traps! This officer has to return to Portsmouth right away-- you must take one of these horses-- Mary, will you please help Dickie unhitch them?-- and ride to see Jed Carpenter. Get him out here, quickly, there’s not a moment to lose--"
In unison Charles and Righteous interrupted her, both saying "No, I’ll go," but Delphine and Mary shook their heads mutely in reply.
"He can do it," Delphine told Charles, laying a warm, gentle hand on the arm of his coat. He worshiped the contact while it lasted; they watched Dickie go. "It will please him to set things right."
Mary bustled forward. "I’m that sorry, Miss Delphine, but I truly didn’t think he’d done it, not until I heard the horses and that confounded cracking noise! Lord, I was that afraid." She shook her head in relief and looked at the two newcomers.
Delphine made a quick introduction-- Mary was Dickie’s wife, and Sandy-Lane’s housekeeper-- and added, "Mary, will you help me carry this inside?" She hauled the huge basket out of the carriage and handed it to her. "And show Mr. Jenkins to the kitchen, please. Lieutenant, if you would be so kind as to carry these kegs, I’d be most grateful."
Charles had watched the whole scene in a rapt, confused fascination. It was no less than he’d expected. Adoration from her followers, and she, a calm commander in the midst of holy mayhem. And apparently she collected misfits. Did that make him a misfit? He hauled the barrels to his shoulders and followed Delphine and Betty to the front door, ruminating on it all. One thing was certain-- he needed that carriage to return to Portsmouth. He supposed he and Jenkins could take the horses, but he’d never sat a nag and was reasonably sure that Jenkins hadn’t, either.
"Ma’am?" he called as they stepped into a small, cozy foyer. "How far does he have to travel?"
She understood his worry. "Oh, under a mile or so, further on. He’ll be back in ten minutes, and with half of Shellbury, I’ve no doubt."
She hadn’t lied. No sooner had he deposited the kegs with Mary in the kitchen and removed his outer-coat than a new commotion sprang up in the drive. They congregated on the stoop to see four or five men on horseback, surveying the damage to the carriage.
Delphine was amazingly cool, like a cucumber, if a mite ungenteel. She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, "Beer for anyone who can unload that carriage for me. Jed! Please look that over, then come in here and tell me how long it will take to repair the mess."
Jenkins tapped one of their kegs and Mary and Betty poured beers to make ready for their thirsty visitors. The ale was frothy from the bumpy ride but refreshing and calming. Charles sipped his and worried a bit. The dutiful part of him was anxious to leave, and the besotted rest of him wanted to stay. Logic and self-preservation told him to scamper off now, to walk or run back to Blandford to hire a po’chaise.
He wondered what Captain Reynolds would do if they were late in returning. Surely he’d understand? One couldn’t not return a lady’s carriage for her, could one?
Yet the only possible thing to do at the moment was wait. They sat awhile in a small, cozy parlor near the front foyer. The room was lived-in and comfortable and cared-for. It was naval in tone, with big, heavy shipboard-type chairs lined in neat rows and shining-scrubbed floors and lintels, yet with little feminine touches scattered here and there: flowered table-covers, and on some high shelves, items which Charles supposed he might call... dolls. One or two were the fancy-type porcelain dolls one might see in an English or Spanish storefront, but there were a few odd ones also; tiny, dark, hand-carved men and women with straw hair, and some little figures of rag wearing the colorful, patterned fabrics of the East. Charles sipped at his ale and tried not to stare at the strange dolls or their impassive eyes, or at Delphine as she bustled in and out of the room.
When Jed came inside a little later, his verdict was unfavorable: he could not have the carriage-wheel repaired until early the next morning, though he promised to do it as quick-like as possible. Charles’s heart sank. His plans were falling apart faster than he could put them together; why did heated, bloody battle seem as simple as shake-my-hand in retrospect? He had two options-- learn to ride, or be prepared to walk in the falling dark and to spend some of his own pay on another rental.
Delphine offered a third option: the hospitality of Sandy-Lane through the night. "I’m so sorry this has happened to you, Lieutenant. I’m such a bother; carnage seems to follow me everywhere," she told him, while not looking the least bit sorry, damn her. "But you must stay. I have a supper from the inn, and plenty of it-- you saw the basket."
Charles was tempted, too tempted; after all, Captain Reynolds had said he’d see him in a day or so. And surely even such a good, dutiful Captain as he wouldn’t be waiting at the dry-dock until midnight.
At her expectant gaze, Charles could only consent. His heart thumped in his chest like drums beating Heart of Oak-- excited, nervous, wishing for and at the same time afraid of disappointment.
*****
The turbulent, unaccustomed emotion in the heart of a practical man continued unabated over dinner. They dined alone, intimate. Charles and Delphine sat and sipped the tasty ale-- he'd have to remember to ask whether that last innkeeper brewed this Brown himself-- in a small, firelit breakfast-nook warmed by a huge grate. Righteous Jenkins dined with Betty and the Dalhams in the kitchen. Mary had unpacked the basket and bustled in and out, spreading its contents on the sturdy round wooden table in front of them, before retreating to her own dinner-party.
"Now, aren’t you glad you stayed? No ship’s biscuit today." Delphine said. She’d only freshened up for supper the slightest bit, changing out of her traveling dress into something rose-pink and well-worn, but to Charles’s eyes she was ravishing. Her hair was uncovered at last, a mess of untidy dark curls falling from inefficient pins to her shoulders, and her cheeks were flushed from the heat of the fire. She was as comfortable as any country housewife, and yet he felt underdressed without his blue jacket, which she’d insisted he remove. "Instead, we have an exotic feast! A menu I had once, on your Emerald Isle. Bread, butter, cheese, beer and oysters."
Charles laughed to hear such homey fare called ‘exotic.’ "Captain Reynolds once said that fancy exotic dishes were a lie and that every land has horrible food; but as luck would have it, in England, they only import the very best of each."
His attempt to be amusing went off-course; she lowered her eyes and looked self-conscious for a moment. She sipped from her mug and then said, in a strange sort of voice, "Thomas-- Captain Bessamy, my late husband-- told me that. He’d warned me once that Captain Reynolds was apt to steal his witticisms."
Charles felt sick; this was the first time she’d mentioned her husband to him. And in such a context! "I’m that sorry, ma’am. There’s me, I’m a poor fellow. Spouting third-hand jests."
"No, please!" she looked alarmed. "Don’t apologize. It was just that it’s been so long since I’d thought about him, and his little petty jealousies. Wait, disregard that-- it sounded horrid. Why don’t we eat? That should keep my mouth full enough for me to resist putting my slipper into it."
Grateful for the suggestion, Charles complied. They chewed for a few minutes in silence. The dark bread was crusty and tangy, and eased the wrench in his belly. She passed him a crock of coldhouse butter. It was perfect with the fresh, slippery, oysters and bitter beer. It was no wonder this was such a popular meal.
"He wasn’t a bad man, you know," Delphine said in a low, insistent voice. Charles looked at her, at her wide, beseeching dark eyes and earnest expression. "He was a good captain, a thorough seaman. It’s just-- my Papa chose him for me, and I was a dutiful daughter. Sometimes that serves for people, and sometimes it does not. Captain B was gone so much in the last war that I hardly ever saw him, and then he was dead. I think he just couldn’t adjust to dry land, whether in England or the East Indies."
"It happens to many a sailor, ma’am," he told her quietly. He wasn’t disconcerted-- he'd found himself becoming all-too-easily accustomed to her frankness. He was quiet because he was thinking about Captain Hornblower, so uncomfortable around his little wife; and about himself. The sea was a sickness, like women, only more deadly and demanding. "I’ve seen it. Perhaps felt it."
"I didn’t mind it. It’s only now, in the last few years, that I’ve been a little lonely. I haven’t been to sea since he died, not even with Papa. But Thomas wasn’t a bad man, really, and I feel terrible for implying it. Though not as handsome as you, of course. Goodness! See how independence has ruined me? I’m quite shocking and dissolute." She took a deep breath and placed her hands flat on the table, staring at them as if she’d never seen them before. "Oh, bother. I’m making such a muddle of things."
She was unsettled; Charles had a sneaking suspicion why but could not fathom how to comfort her, though he very much wanted to. All he could do was wait.
"For all my... talk," she said to her hands at last, slowly, deliberately, "all my chatter and brazen speech, I have a fatal flaw; I call myself ‘direct,’ yet when something is serious or important to me, I sometimes find myself becoming all twisted about, and unable to say what very much needs to be said. I shy away and say silly things. As I seem to be doing now!"
"I don’t find you silly, lass," he said during her pause, almost in whisper, feeling somewhat daring himself. At that she looked up at him, eyes widening just slightly though not in a bad way, a "how-dare-you-sir?" kind of way; she looked as she had in the inn courtyard: interested.
"Truly?" she asked, and leaned forward with a small smile. "Well then, I shall marshal my nerve and continue. I really do find you to be an extraordinary man, and I am so unladylike, and know this, but I would never want you to find me ridiculous. So simply put:" Here she took a deep breath. "One might believe after four years of living independently that one is dead in these matters of the flesh, and then one discovers that one is not. Oh, dear, that wasn’t simple at all. I’d hoped you might like me, a little, as I have found you so very fascinating since I first saw you, and I’d thought you might find me attractive, and that you might have wanted to stay the night, and oh, how I’m blushing. My hands are as pink as this old dress. You look so shocked! I shall just be silent."
After this astonishing speech it was his turn to reassure her that he did, indeed like her very much, and would be pleased to stay the night. Yet suddenly at this of all moments he couldn’t think of exactly what to say.
But the words finally soaked through his thick skull; this adorable lady-- woman-- found him fascinating-- he, rational, dutiful Charlie, Acting Lieutenant. And that made it much easier. So he did the practical thing. He stood and took a few steps around to her side of the table, watching her; she stood and met him halfway, a fine sign. He reached out and took her soft, rounded hands into his, and said, "you are fair when you blush; and woman, you could not possibly shock me."
"Oh," she said, and closed her eyes and leaned towards him, and that was a signal, clear as "tack in succession," that he could kiss her at last. Hesitant at first; her wide lips were as sweet as he’d hoped. And as he’d known, she would never do anything half-heartedly; she threw herself into the kiss, yanking her hands from his and wrapping her strong arms about him, jolting the breath from his very lungs.
But air was no matter, not when her mouth opened under his and he could taste everything, bread and the beer and the oysters mixed with her, an exotic combination if he’d ever known one. What admiral? Charles could only hold on for life, fingers clutching soft rose-pink cloth made softer by the delicious flesh beneath.
The lust was inevitable; no, passion, he thought, worse than before, freshened, doubled, trebled for its being reciprocated. He hadn’t held a woman for a long time and never one like her, and after a few, eternal moments or so he was painfully aroused. It had to be as painfully obvious to her for he was pressed so close to her luscious body he could feel every curve.
But not shy, Delphine. It took him a few hazy moments to realize that she’d backed herself up against the table, and was so tall she was practically sitting on the edge, then leaning back, pulling him atop her. He very much at that moment wanted to be exactly where she had contrived to place him.
Something fell off the table with a thump.
The sound was a gun fired in the seething sea of his brain, alerting him to a signal. The signal, and it had to be run up the line several times, said this: this was not how he wanted to show her he appreciated and wanted her. Well, it was, but that sort of thing could be shown any old trollop off the bum-boat, not to Delphine.
Showing a fiercer restraint than he’d thought he possessed, Charles backed up very slowly, clasping her burning cheeks in his rough palms.
Her eyes opened and displayed confusion at first, then slow mortification crawled into them. Charles rushed to halt its advance.
"I’m sorry, lass. Any one of your people could walk in here at any moment," he said, sliding his hands to her shoulders to steady her, and himself. To his everlasting surprise, logic had not completely deserted him.
Her lips formed an "O" of comprehension and she hastily untwined her fingers from his hair to make ineffectual swipes at her own. "You’re right, Charlie, of course,’ she said, breathily, blushing even more, so much she was perfectly red. "How shocking! How badly I’ve behaved."
Charles laughed, painfully. "Now you are talking guff," he said, but he’d enjoyed hearing his nickname from her lips. He watched as her eyes traveled down between them to inspect his obvious erection. Then it was his turn to redden at the ears; he felt it. He hated it.
"Oh, I know I am. What fell?" she asked, glancing around her and finally noticing the state of the table. "Did you know that in many parts of the world, raw oysters are considered a powerful aphrodisiac?"
All right, so she finally had shocked him. He laughed and laughed, again, feeling the embarrassed tension drain away, but not the desire, never that. "Delphine," he said, happy to say her ridiculous and delightful name at last, "with your consent, we might repair somewhere a bit more private, and we can find out if that’s true?" His heart and stomach crawled into his throat and lodged there for an interminable moment as he waited for her answer. Aphrodisiac or no he doubted oysters would be a further necessity. But it was an opening perhaps, and God willing, an invitation.
But his Delphine was no muttonhead; she caught his idea instantly, and approved, bless her. "What a lovely notion," she murmured, and drew his calloused hand into her own, and pulled him towards the doorway.
****
Chapter 5: The Day the Harbor Pulled Away
"But how is this to be encompassed in a book? In a venereal engagement between a man and a woman the events occur in turn, in a sequence of time; each can be described as it arises…"
Dr. Stephen Maturin, , The Fortune of War, Patrick O’Brian.
I think about the salt sea rolling
The bedroom held a fireplace as huge as the one in the other room-- no damp, musty cottage, this-- but other than that it was dark, lanterns unlit, a cozy, intimate atmosphere. Yet despite their still-connected fingers, that few seconds’ trip had managed to send a cross-current into the swelling, rhythmic mood of moments ago, oysters and longing transmuted into the reality of the present.
Delphine nipped around Charlie to turn a little key in the door. With a somewhat self-conscious look, she said, "Betty is used to coming in here as she feels she needs to; and I am not used to locking her out."
Charlie didn’t answer; for one half-moment he had a terrifying vision of the inebriated Betty screaming for the honor of her mistress: ‘There’s a man in the room, and he gots her!’ Would Righteous Jenkins, able seaman, brave the rest of Delphine’s over-adoring household to rescue him?
The vision faded as his eyes adjusted to the dark, but truth be told, he still shared a bit of Delphine’s self-consciousness, not sure what was expected of him besides the obvious. Practicality and philosophy had deserted him, turned him pathetic, for he would have been a misfit, a gentleman, would have been anything she wanted if only he could have her. Now right here in the thick of his dream, he could only stand there gaping like a looby with a prick the size of Italy.
Oh, he knew the mechanics-- he wasn’t green, by any stretch; though he’d been at sea a long, dry time, he’d had a somewhat wasted youth. And like most of the Academy’s Better Boys he’d managed to wiggle past rules here and there to step out with some town girls, bold lasses he’d liked well enough but who had all drifted off eventually in search of something a little more material than a bit of Irish charm.
Yet his sweet lady Delphine here could not possibly be looking for anything material from him in any conceivable end, and the knowledge had him all aback. The important words there were lady, and Delphine, and his only dilemma was how to be careful, to be the gentleman and not the misfit, when he wanted her so very much. He watched her watching him, saw her round, still-questioning face, caressed by warm waves of orange as if the firelight, too, wished to be lovingly familiar, and beyond her the bed, quilted, white-sheeted and all-too-inviting. What his heart thought he should do was get down on his knees with the rosary of his childhood in hand, giving thanks to her and the patron saint of lonely sea-officers; what his poor, abused body wanted to do was toss up her skirts and bury himself balls-deep in all that wonderful womanness. Neither was a purely appropriate course of action.
Finally he did what duty and common-sense dictated, something simple and easy yet forever pleasant: he set his hands on her shoulders, warm with the creeping heat of the fire, and leaned over to kiss her again, to wipe that heartbreakingly unsure tremble from her lips.
It was another gift to add to the many; there was no complaint, only melting compliance. The taste of beer again, and the sweet moist warmth of the inside of her mouth, and the tide of arousal swelling again, lapping at his nethers, painfully drowning hesitance.
For a few careful moments Charlie indulged himself in all the sensation at once, sliding hands down to caress her sides, her hips. Nary a rib met his questing fingers and palms. How had his eye ever followed those scrawny females, their pointy chins and insubstantial bodies? How had he ever thought Delphine fat, if even only for an instant in a hazy, nearly-forgotten martyrish foul temper?
All that was past, his present consumed with firm, womanly flesh encased in soft, worn fabric, flesh that relented to his touch, sweet from his nose to his toes. She would break him in half, he was sure. His brain may have once been practical but his heart was incapable of believing she’d chosen him.
Yet she had; encouraged by his attentions, Delphine’s boldness finally reasserted itself. She skimmed her hands over his shoulders to his back, a bit grasping but in a purely delicious way, then down to clutch his backside with enough force to shove his aching cock into her belly. It chafed against his trousers, a thousand murders against his taut flesh, itching and begging for her through every snagged thread. Yet, maddeningly, as if having ascertained his continuing desire for her, she pulled back a tiny, infinite distance to gaze up at him and whisper, "When you are a captain, Charlie, promise me you will not grow as fat as the rest of them."
He choked out a chuckle, discovering a novel enjoyment in this ebb and flow of passion, painful though it might be, because he was being permitted to laugh with her. "When I am a captain?"
"But of course. I do not doubt it for an instant."
"I promise nothin’, lass," Charlie said, playing along, while still sliding a starboard palm down to caress her own not-insubstantial bottom, a true delight to be savored, almost as nice as the extra flush that rose to her cheeks. "For then, I’ll warrant, there’ll be plenty of prizes in my bank, and I’ll hold kingly dinners every day."
"Gluttonous!" she said, trailing tantalizingly warm fingertips up his spine.
"Aye." He was feeling a mite gluttonous indeed but was determined to conquer it. Yet a captain had to take charge, to be sure. Emboldened some yet still wishing to be respectful, he-- surreptitiously, he thought-- used the toe of one shoe to kick off the heel of his other, bringing the two of them even more nearly to eye-level. A bold move, perhaps, but her gaze lit with another flash of understanding, and even eagerness.
"Quite," she agreed, and grabbed at the opening of his vest with both hands, forcing his arms away from her and out, giving her space to remove it. Usurping the captain’s place, mutinous wench that she was, but at that moment he would have forgiven her anything for her practicality.
Except for bending his arm at such an unnatural angle. "Whoa, there," he said, laughing, and attempted to twist his limbs back into place. She would have none of it, only spun him around so she could pull the offending garment off of him.
"Forgive me, Charlie! It’s just that it’s such a rare pleasure, having you here, and I’ve wanted that off for a long while, and I did say, did I not, that it was refreshing to discover that I am not dead inside. I mean, I certainly tried but it was so long ago, wait, never mind that." There was a brief pause for an embarrassed breath while she went to work on his shirt. "Yes, refreshing indeed. Oh, I do hope that didn’t hurt! Here, let me figure out how to-- where did all these buttons come from? -- my, it’s warm in here, I shall have to ask Betty to keep the fires a bit more subdued in this fine weather--"
She was chattering again, and Charlie knew, just knew, it was a defense against awkward silence, even an intimate one; the knowledge raised another ache in him, one somewhat more poignant and centered well above his lower parts. The thought crept in that he could listen to the chatter forever, if it meant that he wasn’t the only one here a bit off-center, and that this fine lass cared about him and about this, more than a little.
To show her he understood he interrupted her exploration of his half-shirted torso to lean in and whisper his thankful reply, to her earlobes, her lips to still their nervous breath, letting his parched fingers drink in the warmth of the skin at her shoulders.
The practical part of him that remained remembered what buttons were and how to unlatch them. Soon her pink gown crumpled to the floor at their feet, out of sight at last. The euphoric rest of him tasted the soft, perfumed skin of her shoulder, and daringly indulged itself in the lushness of a woman’s breast against his dry, undeserving palm as he slid it, gently, under the edge of her shift. It was an agony moving this slowly, in this clumsy attempt to show her how he cared, if just a little. Still the stolen caress proved her to be as tender and full as he’d imagined-- was it only hours ago?-- when he’d stared at her bosom and still believed anything female would do. He’d discovered that was not so, and only hoped that she understood.
It seemed that this was indeed the right way to go about it, if the hardening of the little nub against his palm, and her little gasps of pleasure in his ear, and the way she squirmed in his grasp, were any sign. Yet he must have been indulging himself a little too much or too long or even too carefully, for after a few blissful moments her hand crept into his trousers, an all-too arousing shock, and she whispered against his chin, "I am not made of fine china, my dear Charlie. You shall not break me."
A direct hit to his too-thick skull, an eighteen-pounder at least, and it finally sank in; she was as impatient as he. "Oh, Thank God," he breathed.
After that it was all a bit too hurried, perhaps, but there were no complaints at the depth of his ardor or at the way he yanked her close. There were more of those damned latches to undo at the back of her shift and they required more concentration than he had to give, as busy as his mouth and other hand were, but praise to the Royal Navy his fingers were nimble enough to get enough of them undone to pull it down, and off.
There was not even time to look as he’d wanted-- that lovely, gleaming skin glimpsed in snatches caught between hurried kisses was begging to be ogled-- before he’d steered her to the edge of the bed. Heavenly Delphine, she didn’t give him room to look anyway, so tightly wrapped around him was she.
Charlie dimly noticed that she’d had the presence of mind to finish the job of unlatching his breeches, and they dropped to the floor along with a hurried prayer of thanks that they’d been clean when he’d donned them this morning. That left them both in stockings, but those would have to wait and were long-forgotten after mere instants in the throbbing, urgent present of flesh on flesh.
The scent of her hair and clean, warm sheets were a more powerful aphrodisiac than ever oysters could be, especially when coupled with the touch and press of the skin he couldn’t see, on every sex-starved limb, and the dim sounds of his name in his ear as they slipped onto the bed. The feel of damp curls against the back of his hand and the breathless, "oh, Charlie," and the squeeze of strong thighs about his hips, and then slick heat, tight. And had that ever been more wonderful, to be given that all at once, along with the dearest lips and nose and cheeks he’d ever tasted?
But such hurried passion could only be spent quickly. Long, it had been too long for both of them, it seemed, and she was too marvelous. All his planning, his desire to be careful, had gone all awry, knocked aside by Delphine as had all his other plans this long, long day. And all too soon the delicious, tight thrusts and the moans in his ear produced that sweetly familiar tensing in his belly, that precipice of pain and pleasure, and he tried, he really did, to make it last, gave it his Irish all, but the flesh would not be denied. He was conscious of his groans escaping into her sweet ear and he thought through his haze of lust she might have cried out as well, but sensation and the sharpest bliss followed by a startling climax drowned the noise.
For a few moments Charlie was broken in half, every bone useless, breath gone and his poor, abused body scrabbling after it. But as a minute or so passed the future crept ever closer, more conscious and thus more agonizing every moment, a future in which he would have to realize at last what he’d done, how he’d failed.
Heavy breaths from Delphine beneath him, ruffling his hair, counting off the seconds, an accusation in every one. Blockhead, they said. For even in such a shared lustful passion he’d been selfish. Had he pleased her at all?
Carefully, he pressed his knee into the sheets to raise himself, to hide the sight of his shamefully-burning ears from her gaze. Yes, her eyes were open, no recrimination in their brown fire-flecked depths, but his own recriminations were enough for both of them.
"I," he choked into her wide-eyed gaze, "am so sorry, dearest lass. Please, did I hurt you?"
"Of course not, you silly man," she said, and smiled and rolled her eyes, though not without blushing again. Her hands shook his shoulders a bit. Then her eyes focused on him again and adopted a teasing glint. "Clearly I am still not broken, still all here, and if you apologize to me, Charlie, then I shall certainly need to know why."
"I--" he said, then clapped his mouth shut. What would come out could only be prosaic and unworthy. That he could not do; could never admit his own selfishness, not to her. Lord, but he was a bad man.
His Delphine was coming back into form, even mostly naked and tangled up in him and the bedsheets; only she could pull it off in such a position, a forthright and capable lady to the core. "If you are apologizing for being a handsome and wonderful and courageous young man who has seen fit to make love to me on my express invitation," she said, "then please do not, for I am a happy woman. Quite selfish, and devious, in fact, for I have thought of little else for hours."
That had not been making love, at least not as he’d imagined it. And yet Delphine lay there looking only too pleased with herself, and teasing him. A twenty-four-pound ball direct to the brain-box, this time, a broadside of friendly fire that was too overwhelming. Here he was, tearing himself apart because he’d made a bags of the whole affair, a sad mess. She was so merry, so kind, he thought his chest might explode from the swelling that stretched it; he’d realized hours past that admiral’s daughter or no she was a right special woman, how had he forgotten that? A heartening, heart-lightening thought: failure could still make one happy: a lesson to be remembered.
She had not kicked him out of her room, or her life; that carriage wheel would take hours to fix, and he vowed to use these hours well. "You could be happier, lass, I think," he said, and he watched her eyes fill with interest, while his heart filled with thankfulness. "Perhaps I could apologize a wee bit more?"
Now her look was one of pure unholy glee. "If you feel the need, my silly man, then please do so."
"I’m a right contrite fellow, Delphine Bessamy," he said, and set about to prove it.
How wonderfully clear the air seemed now, after such a release from pressure both physical and emotional; even in the wafting heat from the flames. As he rolled a bit to the side, how clearly he could see her tall, voluptuous form, acres of it, all his and ready to be worshipped and begged for forgiveness. He wanted to never leave, and he wanted to apologize forever. Yet that was not possible, and he had to make the most of now.
He took a moment to kiss her on the lips, quick and sure. He felt one hand curl about the back of his neck to tickle his nape-- no, not tickling, but with a purpose. The tie to his pigtail fluttered over his shoulder and dangled at her plump breast; oh, how he wanted to follow its path. First, though, he could play a bit; he had hours to make it up to her, now. "Thieving woman," he told her.
Her face turned to smile at him, teeth bright in the dimness. "I simply adore the naval custom of keeping the hair long. Truly, I weep for the fashionable men of today, for they are practically bald. They lose their power over me, like Samson," she said, and tossed the ribbon with a flick of her wrist.
Charlie caught it out of the air before laying it on the bedside table-- he’d need that, in the dreaded later. "If you’ll be thinking a bit, Delphine," he said into the wonderful now, emphasizing her name in a teasing voice and dropping his lips to nuzzle at her collarbone, "’twas Delilah who lost the poor man his hair. Vile temptress." He meant them both, and proved it by sliding his mouth down to one firm, tempting breast, to feel the little hard nub which had so pleased him in the hazy earlier, but now with the much more sensitive skin of his lips and tongue.
She released an "mmmm" of enjoyment. "I should like to be a temptress, if only young men would do this to me every single day. Dickie certainly helped, with his man-trap in the drive."
He couldn’t help it; he sputtered against her skin, surely not a refined thing to do. Nevertheless the hilarity of it shocked an aching core of warmth into his belly; he was finding that honest laughter was more arousing than anything else he’d ever known. How would he live without it, or without her to provide it?
An apology to her other breast was in order, both for indulgence and time to regain composure, to let the words behind her words sink in and wrench at his heart a little.
"You keep saying young to me as if you were as ancient as the hills," he told the lovely, voluptuous curve under her breast at last, with a quick glance up to punctuate his seriousness. "And yet here you are, just a slip of a girl yourself." He squeezed her firm, lovely thigh, twice, for more emphasis, to make her realize the truth of his words.
Delphine was distracted; her hands were doing some exploring of their own, down his chest to brush through the hair at his belly; his muscles jumped at her command. Then, over to his bottom; her nails trailed along his hip, back and forth, drawing a further delightful enchantment.
"I have a confession to make, dearest Charlie. My first trip across the Atlantic, I was not yet born. My Mama was in Boston, and Papa had to beg her passage home on a Dutch merchant vessel. This was in the middle of the War Against the States."
Charlie did some quick, private math and revised his estimate of her age up a year or two. It was no matter, though, for what were years to a soul in God’s ageless infinite? And the physical proof was there: her skin was as taut and fresh, and the little nipple on his tongue as rosy, as any he’d seen. A few more moments of kissing it took to make sure, as he hated to leave it be, but she was waiting for an answer.
Perhaps not: as he raised his chin he saw that her eyes were closed, her face a soft rapture, and he felt a purely male satisfaction and license to preen a bit or to tease in reply.
"Deceitful wench, and there was me, all in awe of such a well-traveled woman."
"Mmm-hmmm," was Delphine’s reply as he explored more of this terra-almost-incognita with his tongue, the dip below her breastbone a tidepool, tasting of the earthy, mingled sweat of their earlier coupling, and up the gentle rise of her belly, a lush, uncharted island. "The dolls," she continued, a mumbled non-sequitur. "Papa sent one with her, mmm, and never stopped once it was discovered I was a girl."
Aye, a girl, and a fine, strapping armful of one, too, the most wonderful I ever imagined. Charlie wanted to say it aloud, and more, but the words would be insufficient, because he felt the words , but for him, speaking such mental endearments would only exacerbate the pain when he had to leave. A distraction was needed, Charlie thought, as he finally remembered to remove her stockings. A lovely sight her calves and ankles were still, though, and would remain, forever etched in his memory to be recalled in the empty, endless future of creaking wood and sea-water. He let his lips make quick apologies to her rounded knees, then up, and there was another sight to distract him.
A spot he hadn’t explored yet, at least not properly: the little thatch of dark curls between her coral-pale thighs. Surely he needed to offer a penance to her there, most of all?
He let his hands skim up her legs, with purpose, then placed an adoring kiss at her navel, next trailing his tongue down through the nest of hair to the impossibly soft, wet cleft, delightfully and essentially tasting of Delphine but musky still with his own misspent seed. Shameless, but what was there now to be gained in shame, he thought with fatalistic fervor, for she would want none of it. His cock stirred, jumped, at the taste and dim remembrance of how wondrous she had felt enveloping him, but in this satiated and besotted state he felt he could bear the ache forever without complaint.
Darling woman, she twitched only a second in protest and then left off. Beautiful, loyal, amusing, kind, unafraid of a little rough tumble, un-shy of the more erotic pleasures of the flesh-- could he add any more to her litany of perfections?
His mind stopped counting them as her thighs parted a wee bit and he was allowed to taste those silky folds, and what was more erotic than the earthy taste of it all, and her fingers teasing his ears, and her lovely gasps as he swirled it all up with his tongue? Nothing, that’s what, and as his delectable work brought a shuddering result, he realized his cock had rushed to answer; it was as hard and heavy as an anchor. Forever. And without complaint, he reminded himself.
"Oh, lovely," she breathed, and Charlie crawled up the breathtaking expanse of Peninsula Delphine to whisper his thanks to her ever-sweet lips, to the swelling terrace of one breast and then the other, and the words came, torn from him like a sneeze.
The truth, a poor offering but all he had. "You are the sweetest lass I ever clapped eyes on, or ever knew," he finally said. "Ever in life." Further words wanted to burst from him, but it was too painful, and so he could only look at her.
Blushing, she was, to the roots of her soft, dark hair, and wearing a bit of a stunned expression. "I-- I," she stammered, and her smile was heartbreaking. "Thank you," she said finally. "I find you so wonderful-- I saw you first, you know, and you were so industrious and serious, but you have such a heavenly smile. It was the smile of a dreamer, and I could never resist it, never. Are you a dreamer, dear Charlie?"
"No," he whispered, but at that moment it was both the truth as well as a lie, for what else was this but a dream?
And this time he could call it something like making love, slow and fulfilling and as full of silly endearments as could ever fill the fantasies of the most romantic sailor, but that only poured like water, overflowing from the heart of a practical man. And the dawn loomed, mere hours away, yet still distant enough.
*****
Dawn did arrive, eventually and yet all too soon. It came not bursting in with radiant yellow glee but with creeping, dim grey light, whispering through a crack in the curtains, warring silently with the glowing fire-embers over which was weakest. Charlie had woken some time before it, his body long trained to anticipate the bells, even those that did not come.
His lubberlike Delphine only snored lightly, contented beside him under the covers. Charlie indulged himself in some fond gazing at the tangle of the curls covering her face, then turned his eyes resolutely away, a touch of despondence dragging down the corners of his silly smile.
Soon he would have to leave. Leave for liberty? Or leave for labor? He’d been promised a few days’ liberty for his labors to the convoy, for staying on watch in Calcutta and St. Helena and he couldn’t remember where else. But there was a war going on, if he cared to remember it, and war meant anticipation of new orders.
Sea-life had lost none of its luster, to be sure, but land had gained some. What he needed was the distraction of duty to cure that hopeless longing. Perhaps HMS Frigate Karen would be sent somewhere exciting, somewhere where she could nab a few prizes or make a difference in the war-- she and her crew had proven themselves of some worth there. On the other hand, perhaps she would be sent on blockade duty; an endless beating back-and-forth which by its very boredom and wear on the soul would only throw what was being left behind into even sharper relief, and make the loss of it more painful.
Pessimism was no virtue, but Jesus Christ knew, any emotion worth exploring was worth exploring fully, was it not?
Buck up, man, Charles told himself. He would not be gone forever-- that he knew of, at least-- and yet who was to say that sweet Delphine, here, would want to see him again? He had nothing to offer her beyond what he had already given, and that was not enough. And even if it was enough for her, he would so rarely be by her side.
Outside in the trees a few birds chirped a desultory greeting to the tepid morning. The sound of wheels on the drive drowned their calls in its rumble and crack, followed by a knocking at the door. Voices. Time to go, at least to find out whether or not the carriage had been repaired. Perhaps it hadn’t. Perhaps they’d have to send to London for parts, and that would take another day or two, at least.
From pessimist to dreamer in the space of a few minutes: what an impressive fellow he was!
Charlie leaned over to plant a quick, smacking kiss on what he thought might be Delphine’s forehead before rising to find his clothes. She never stirred-- Aha! a flaw at last-- she was a dead-sound sleeper.
He dressed quickly and only remembered at the last moment to fetch his hair tie from the bedside table. He was tiptoeing for the door when he heard a sleepy voice call out from behind.
"You would not leave without saying goodbye, would you?"
Charlie spun with alacrity, hurt, but only because such a thought might have pained her for an instant. "Never in life," he said, and walked back over to take her hand, the one that wasn’t holding the sheet to her chin. "Only going out to see what Jed Carpenter has to say about the carriage."
"Oh. Well, then," Delphine said with a slight smile, and squeezed his fingers before releasing them. Then, a little more comprehension dawned. "He’s here? Already? Damn the man, he will live to regret it!"
And that was a sight worth a moment’s affectionate admiration or two: she was a right mess, hair all in her eyes and mouth and face puffy from sleep and other things, and cursing. Another flaw, then-- a mite grumpish in the morning. He thought it the loveliest thing ever.
"I’ll be back, lass, I promise," he told her as he crept out. Before he shut the door behind him he could hear her, muttering, "well, I suppose I should get up then, shall I? Ungodly men and their ungodly bloody mornings."
Righteous Jenkins was there in the parlor along with Jed, the Dalhams, and Betty. At the sight of Charlie the little maid shook her head and walked over to him.
"Never was I so surprised," she said in a conspiratorial whisper. "Think missus’ll need her coffee still, then?"
A tad mortified, Charlie could only nod in mute reply.
"Lord, then I best go and gets it," she said, and scampered off.
Like last night the news from Jed was good, or ill, depending again upon how one chose to look at it. The carriage and horses were ready to go. Charlie looked bleakly at Jenkins, who knuckled his forehead in reply.
Yet Delphine still hadn’t emerged from her lion’s den. Charlie hesitated a moment, hating to be obvious, but then decided he didn’t care what anyone here thought. The opportunity to see her one, last time, to spend a few eternal moments watching her be grumpish, or be anything, was too vital to forego.
The door was shut; a split-second decision, then he rapped on the wood twice, quickly, before forcing it open a crack.
"Yes, yes, I’m nearly dressed," came the sharp reply, and then startlement in her dark eyes at the sight of him. "Oh, ‘tis you! Please forgive me, I am such a bear in the mornings, and oh, is that you, Betty, skulking behind the Lieutenant? Thank the heavens, it is, Betty, get in here and give that to me, please. Now shoo!" She waved Betty out the door, leaving them alone again.
"The carriage is right and ready to go," Charlie told her, wondering if the bright phrase had come out bearing the glumness he felt. He drank in the sight of Delphine, nearly human again, dressed in something blue, hair hastily pinned, and sipping desperately at her steaming coffee. At his words her brightening expression fell, taking his heart with it. His own private pain he could understand, and bear, but never hers. Already he was consumed with guilt, and with longing though he’d not even yet left. Longing for her, for his duty, for the sea. His mind didn’t know which way to turn; whichever way it did, he was wrong for her. She, who had men falling over each other only to throw themselves at her feet-- he had nothing she could possibly want, at least for more than a night. An acting lieutenant, with no prospects or patronage and little pay, and Irish to boot, was nothing.
But something he was, it seemed, in her luminous eyes. Delphine set down her cup and stepped over to take his hands. "I know you must, but still I do not want you to go. Do you-- do you--" here her voice cracked a little and he could not endure it, he could not-- but she took a deep breath and continued, his capable lady. "Think you might write to me? And that I might do so in return?"
A small, not-unpleasant shock took him there; a correspondence, and after something so serious, perhaps more? But it could not be. He could be discovered, or worse, she could. He could only blurt the truth in his heart as he knew it. "I would dearly love to, and p’rhaps I’ll write to you in my head, but I am not worthy. I can give you nothing, lass."
Her first reply was a glare, then, "I want nothing. Except you, and to know whether you live or die. And, perhaps, to see you sometimes, and oh, this is not to be lost!"
Charlie’s chest expanded with the ache, an all-too-familiar feeling since yesterday. A bit overcome, he let go her hands to fold her in his arms, every inch of her. "Darlin’ Delphine, my forthright one. She says it better than ever I could." He relaxed a moment, enjoying the novelty of holding her close when nothing was expected of him but a no-doubt poorly-written letter full of poorly-expressed feelings. Then reality: her reputation, his career. "But the Admiral, lass, for sure he won’t like it."
"Oooh!" Delphine pounded him on the shoulder with her fist, a right healthy thump. "Do you possibly think my Papa has anything to say about my wish for letters? Or that he could possibly do harm to any of my friends? He knows better. Oh, I have hurt you, dearest Charlie, and I am sorry for that. But not for the sentiment behind it! If you will not write to me, then say so now, so that I may go weep in private. And then we might never know-- oh! Odious man."
Yet she did not pull away from his embrace, and Charlie’s heart felt fuller yet lighter than it had all morning. If such a lady, Delphine, wanted him, wanted anything he had to give, he could only be happy to give it to her. Including his heart on a silver platter; he would buy the platter, first thing, in Portsmouth.
"My dear lass," he told her, taking a moment to kiss the threatening moisture from her eyes. "I will write to you, then, and I’ll surely pine for each letter in return."
"Good. Then kiss me before you go. Odious man."
And he did, but then Betty was knocking at the door and calling for the Mr. Lieutenant. So he and Righteous Jenkins departed, followed by the wave of white ladies’ handkerchiefs in the grey dawn.
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