Horatio Hornblower Fanfiction: Shilling by Jedishampoo

The erstwhile Duchess of Wharfedale-- née Kitty Cobham, actress—waited politely for Don Massaredo to finish one of the fine Spanish anecdotes with which he concluded every dinner at his table. He gestured expansively, losing himself in the heat of his story.

She took an opportunity to glance across the table at Acting Lieutenant Horatio Hornblower. That young man had hardly touched his dinner this night and appeared to be pouting. As usual he sat ramrod-straight but his eyes seemed to have fixed upon the tablecloth, which he traced absently with one long finger. Now and then he would glance at Massaredo, then back at his etchings on the tablecloth, as if imprinting its designs upon his memory.

Kitty wondered at the particular direction of his thoughts—indeed, she often wondered what he was thinking behind the impassive aspect of his smooth forehead—but could hardly blame him for melancholy. Her own face was a blank mask of politeness, but underneath her thoughts were turbulent and impatient.

"But you see, he did not do as I tell him--"

Massaredo was proud of this fort, this garrison, and its prison, but Kitty could only consider it as a sort of Purgatory. Whether she would be judged good or ill for her sins in the end, she did not know. She could only wait, to be caught and face a spy’s death beneath the blade of a French guillotine, or to earn her return to London.

Her wait was by no means as uncomfortable as it could have been. Don Massaredo was kind and respectful of both her womanhood and her assumed title, but to face his unrelieved company every night at dinner was becoming a chore. Some momentary excitement had been provided by Colonel de Vergesse’s visit, but it had been an excitement filled with terror and was not to be wished for again.

Not to say that de Vergesse had been unbearable— he’d been eminently endurable, and her experience at his hands would have been worth ten times’ repeating in exchange for the pricelessness of his silence. In days past she’d been forced to curtsey to worse in the Green Room at Drury Lane.

But thoughts of the doddering don and the dissipated colonel only brought into sharp relief the brighter moments of her stay at El Ferrol-- the time she was allowed to spend teasing and chatting with Horatio. She’d charmed Massaredo into granting her the favor of exercise then lured the young lieutenant out with her, purporting to tutor him in the ways of society. Of all things, that had been her excuse, but she was unashamed to admit to herself that what she’d really wanted was to take every opportunity to gaze at his young, handsome face, so pretty really, like a statue. To admire his stammering manner, so out of place in one who’d proved himself brilliant and brave in battle.

The young lieutenant had caught her discerning eye from the moment she’d met him in Gibraltar. And now she watched him out of the corner of her eye, and wondered if he ever loosened up for more than a smile and apology. She thought she might like to be there if he did.

Things had been progressing nicely, helped by the don’s apathetic blessing. But then Archie Kennedy had revealed her background, and to top it off, Horatio had been obliged to witness that business with de Vergesse.

How his nose had been put out of joint by that! His natural kindness had reasserted itself with her explanation of events, and his dispatches remained with her, but he kept an emotional distance.

She had noticed, though, that he still shaved himself daily. Kitty wondered if she might yet have a chance to draw him out, even if only to discover the reason for his pronounced despondency this night.

"I settled down after the funeral of Valdez, and now I am here," Massaredo said, concluding his story. Kitty wrenched her thoughts from the silent young man across the table, and turned to smile at the don.

"Bah! I’m sure a man like you is prepared battle, sir," she flirted. That brought a smile to the old man’s face.

"As to that, only time will tell," he said in his heavily-accented English, and raised a glass at her. "I see you have finished your wine. Do you wish to retire, Duquesa?"

"I do, at that," she said with relief, waiting for the gentlemen to rise before getting to her feet. "I’ll relax with a glass or two of something warming to end the night, sir."

Massaredo chuckled. "It has already been sent to your quarters."

"I know it, and I thank you! Ah, here is Lieutenant Hornblower come ‘round to see me safely to my room." She bowed at the don and linked her arm with Horatio’s. "Good night, sir."

"And to you, Duquesa, and sir."

The bare walls of the short hall, lit with the warmth of candles, were as always a relief to the eye after the tapestried magnificence of the confined dining room. Once they were out of the don’s sight, Horatio detached his arm from hers and led the way without looking at her. They stopped at the door to her room and he bowed shortly, then turned to nod at the guard behind.

Kitty made a quick decision. She wanted to know what was wrong with Horatio, and she wanted his company. The bottle of something warming was waiting, ripe to loosen a young man’s tongue…and perhaps his restraint.

"Why don’t you come with me, Horatio? I have something special to share."

"Something special, ma’am?" He glanced back at her, slightly apprehensive.

"A bottle. Something special in a bottle. Don’t look so worried, Mr. Haitch," she teased, using the outdated nickname.

He hesitated. "But what of Don Massaredo?"

She waved a dismissive hand at the wall, a blithe damnation of the fort, the garrison, the prison, and its rules. "As long as you are with me, you are on parole, are you not? And he hardly cares what I do. He must trust me, as I rely on his goodwill to get me home."

He looked undecided for a moment, then nodded. She waved him into the room and shut the door. The stone-faced guard paid them no attention at all.

***

A quarter-hour later, Kitty had removed her shoes and perched on the edge of the bed. She had poured them both glasses of the fine rum that had been waiting in her room, a generous gift from Don Massaredo. And she’d watched him. Despite being supplied with two servings of the rum he’d said nothing beyond the usual courtesies.

He sat uncomfortably in a small, hard, wooden chair, sipping the liquor. With no tablecloth to stare at he confined his gaze to his shoes, perhaps watching the candlelight flicker across the buckles.

After a few silent moments Horatio sighed and downed the remaining contents of his second glass. He closed his eyes as if savoring the pleasant burn and lift of the spirits, then opened them and looked at her in surprise. "This is very fine—this is rum?"

"It took you two glasses to notice? Yes, rhum agricole, sir, the very best. Aged in barrels. De Vergesse brought a few bottles to the don, and I swindled one for myself."

"Oh." A glint of distaste flickered shortly about his brown eyes at the mention of the French colonel, but his good breeding quickly banished it.

She continued, glad to be speaking with him at last, and pretending she hadn’t seen the look. "Not that the Spanish aòejo is bad stuff—better than the watery grog you keep on board for your men—but it could be aged any old way. Pure cane juice—it’s one thing the French islanders take the time to do right. I suspect your Captain Sir Edward keeps a bottle or two locked away."

"Mmmm."

"Pay attention!" she chided, annoyed at his silence, and at his annoyance with her. "You must know your spirits, sir. This is the sort of thing you’ll be expected to chat about, once you’re an admiral, you know." She poured more liquor into his outstretched glass.

"Indeed." His annoyance didn’t appear to halt his enjoyment of the rum. He sipped it much too quickly.

"Watch yourself—it’s deceptive."

"I am familiar with the drinking of spirits, Your Gr-- I mean, Miss Cobham. That is why most men join the Navy, you know."

"Call me Kitty."

"Of course."

She smiled as the rum disappeared down his throat. She moved quickly to pour him some more. He was drinking it very quickly. She would have found it amusing if only he would unbend.

"So, Horatio," she said, leaning one hand on the bed, then winced inwardly at the governessy tone of her own voice. That wasn’t quite the timbre she’d been aiming for. "What is worrying you? You can tell me, you know."

He shook his head. "Nothing, ma’am."

"Kitty," she corrected automatically. "Come Atlas, unburden yourself. What’s gnawing at your vitals?"

He flashed a wry smile at the teasing return of her Yorkshire accent, then nodded. "If you must know, it’s the men. I’m worried about their state. And I—I thought they trusted me."

"Surely they do! I’ve seen that they hold you in the highest regard."

"Held me in the highest regard," he said, emphasis on the held. He sighed and ran long fingers through his artistically disarrayed curls. Then, as if emboldened by her confidence and the rum, he elaborated. "They are planning something, but what it is, I cannot discern. They do not trust that I’ve been dining with you and the don every evening, whilst they make do with bread and thin gravy."

"But surely, as an officer, you are due every courtesy--"

"Yet Mr. Midshipman Kennedy lies nearly dead because of his trials here," he interrupted with another sigh. "No, I fear that these courtesies are the result of Your Graces."

"Ouch!" she laughed. "You shall have to do better than that when you are in society. I see I have more to teach you than I first thought."

"Ah! But there is the problem. They say that my head has been turned from thoughts of escape by… well, by you."

"By me? But I have tried to help you all be more comfortable. Fruit, soap…"

"But the men do not want to be comfortable. They want to leave." He finished the last of his fourth glass and held it out for more.

She obliged, watching him carefully and wondering how old he was. Twenty? Twenty-one? Young, anyway. And despite his confidences, still upset with her. His eyes had swiveled toward her bed four times at least in the short time he’d been here, no doubt looking for a remaining imprint of de Vergesse. She remembered asking him whether he were jealous of the Frenchman, and remembered also that he’d never replied.

"Well," she said brightly. "As I told you, I want to leave also. I wish I could take you with me when I do."

"Is there room under your skirts for us all?"

"Better, Horatio!" she said, straight-faced but feeling laughter bubble in her chest. Of course he’d been referring to the dispatches, but she was determined to be flattered, and to tease him. "That was a very warm remark. Well done."

"I beg your pardon!" His cheeks had grown as red as his nose. In fact, his whole face was flushed, and whether it was from the liquor or the conversation she did not know. She suspected the rum. He’d swilled five glasses on an empty stomach.

But she felt no real pity. She wanted the conversation to become intimate. "Please! I am encouraged. You will make a fine flirt one day, Mr. Hornblower."

"I-- I musht be going--" he said suddenly, and stood. He didn’t take a step but remained swaying in one spot, making a valiant attempt to hold his ground.

She hid another smile under a face primped with careful concern. "Can you walk?"

"Of coursh," he slurred, waving like a sapling in a stiff breeze.

"Horatio! I do believe you are foxed."

"Impossible!" he said, and swung one booted foot in the direction of the door. It came down on the floorboards with a stomp and he grabbed the back of the chair for support. "Uh. You may be right." She noted that he permitted himself a wry smile. Perhaps he was unbending at last?

She stood and reached up to grasp his shoulders, steadying him. "You certainly can’t return to your men in such a state, sir. Come! Rest for a while," she said in mock seriousness as she steered him from the door.

"Tis very warm here. In Spain. In here," he mumbled.

"Off with your jacket, then," she said, happy to help him remove it, along with his waistcoat. When he was in his shirtsleeves she pulled him to the edge of the bed next to her, supporting him with an arm around his back.

He swayed even as he sat within the steadying circle of her arm and turned a ruefully sodden gaze upon her. "I do apol— apologize, ma’am."

"Kitty," she said absentmindedly, and pulled him half-upon her, cradling his head below her chin. "Now rest for a moment. Shhh."

"Mmph."

She felt his head slide down her breastbone and his hands grasp her sides to steady himself. She thought this was indeed a promising position, marred only by the fact that he was about to lose consciousness. That was disappointing. She’d have thought that even a man as young as he, and a sailor to boot, would have been able to better hold his liquor. Even if it was quite the most potent rum anyone had ever given him.

But she could enjoy his nearness while it lasted. She slipped her hands from his shoulders to wind them in the soft curls of his hair, then leaned forward a bit, the better to bury her cheek in it. The scent of it was fresh and clean—man and soap—absent of the pomade that men like de Vergesse favored. A doctor’s son, indeed.

Yet she knew it would probably go nowhere. He was, after all, a bit of a prig, and an innocent. Her plan had failed, she decided.

So she was surprised, a few moments later, to feel the brush of his cheek against her breastbone. He heaved a long sigh through his nose, a heated breath that fluttered across the bare skin of her décolletage. Suddenly she was all too aware of his long, warm fingers clenching at her sides, and of the unfamiliar skin touching hers.

And she was aware that he was most definitely nuzzling her bosom. He had buried his chin in the gap between her breasts, his lips resting softly just above the neck of her gown.

She supposed she should have felt maternal, but she didn’t. Encouraging his hesitant caresses, she rubbed her fingers along his nape, and under the neck of his shirt, feeling the slight stickiness of his skin.

He mumbled something incoherent against her breast and raised his face to look at her. The dark prettiness of his eyes in the dim candlelight absorbed her, and she leaned closer. Still he hesitated, staring at her mouth, and finally she essayed a kiss at the corner of his lips, and then over, marveling at their softness. His mouth remained immobile but numbly she felt his hands slide up the sides of her dress, the heels of his palms brushing against her breasts, but never too close, as if he were afraid to go too far.

She wanted more. She wanted this young man, wanted him to touch her and to have him in exchange, and it was something that she wanted simply for itself, for no payment or favors.

Yet she knew that more work would be required for the prize of his body. There was no possible way that he, in his state, could unhook the fastenings of her dress. There was a fine line between pleasurably drunk and uncomfortably drunk, and she suspected he was getting close to that line. But she didn’t care.

Lingeringly she pulled away. He opened his eyes as she backed off, confused, but she only waved a finger at him and stood so that she could unfasten her gown herself.

He watched her, silent, his fine eyes dark and glazed in the ill-lit room. Kitty unhooked enough buttons to slide her overdress to the floor. The shift that remained covered all but the tops of her breasts, but was scanty and hid little else.

His eyes betrayed nothing as she stood there, but he rose unsteadily to his feet and stepped over to embrace her. The rum spirits on his lips had long dissipated, leaving only the sweetness. It turned to honeyed molasses in the heat of his mouth against hers.

Strong fingers clenched and unclenched at her sides with untutored passion, until she grasped them in hers and brushed his hand against the neckline of her shift. He took the hint and slid his palm inside. His calloused sailor’s fingers against her sensitive flesh did unspeakable things to her insides.

She stroked her hands along his lean body, thoroughly enjoying every plane and soft hollow, then down to make short work of the opening to his trousers. His labored breaths teased quick and hot at her ear as she trailed her lips to the underside of his jaw, savoring the slight stubble and taste of his skin, and feeling his nervous pulse as it raced beneath her tongue.

Her hand grasped thickening flesh between his legs, and a few short strokes awoke it to an impressive life. She liked the way he felt in her palms—the smooth dry heat, as long and slim as the rest of him. So engrossed was she that it was several moments before her mind registered the pain of his fingers digging into her shoulder and breast with every stroke she made. She took pity on him and eased down his trousers. He stumbled out of his own shoes and stockings and fell onto her, pressing her against the bed.

The rum he’d consumed was not enough to dull him completely. His unsteady hands managed to lift her shift to her waist. She bent her knees in mute encouragement, allowing him to take the lead, and to see what he was capable of in this state. With a surprising accuracy he pushed himself inside. He lay there for a moment, every deep breath pressing her into the covers, then gathered his strength and began to move.

It was lovely. She hadn’t expected much in the way of preparation but perhaps anticipation had been enough. She curled her ankles around his thighs and let him work, reveling in the feel of the sweat-dampened skin beneath his shirt.

She had also been prepared for this to end prematurely, but it did not. The rum had numbed him nicely, it seemed. Drunkenness kept his movements slow, effort kept them precise. She relaxed in the feel of him moving inside her, ciurling herself more tightly around him and appreciating the efforts of a very diligent young man.

"That’s it, luv," she encouraged quietly, but her only reply was the short, rummed huffs of his breath against her ear. Yet she found that there were advantages to single-mindedness, youth and drunken immodesty. He held nothing back; was no longer hesitant or gentle. Each deep friction wore down her consciousness, both easing and feeding the ache that built inside.

But nothing pleasant can last forever, especially when enjoyed with such vigor. Just as the pressure in her belly had built to its loveliest pitch, he halted with a sudden gasping jerk, straining every muscle, then collapsed atop her with an "oomph" of released breath.

Kitty lay there still for a few moments feeling very unfortunate indeed, especially when his breaths lengthened and a small snore escaped his lips. But then she opened her eyes and looked at him again, at the thick sweaty curls that lay against her collarbone, and at the line of his jaw, and the smooth innocence of his forehead, and felt very lucky after all.

After a few minutes, however, her shift began to feel sticky and uncomfortable, and her limbs had begun to fall asleep. She tried to be gentle when she heaved him off, but once on his back he awoke with a bleary gaze. She would have sworn a look in his eyes of momentary mortification, but the expression was, as always, quickly masked.

"Go back to sleep," she started to say, but he backed away, overbalanced and rolled off the bed to thump on the floor.

With an effort he pulled himself mostly upright then looked around the room for his clothing. "Very s-sorry, ma’am," he muttered, looking quite ashamed of himself. "I b-beg your pardon, but I must leave--"

"Kitty," she reminded, swallowing a snort that threatened to become a chuckle. Navy men must be trained to dress in a hurry, she thought, as she watched him don his trousers and waistcoat with an inebriated but amazing speed. "Must you go?" she added.

"Y-yes! I need to return to the cell straightaway, lest the men never listen to me again."

"Privileges of rank. They’ll not worry, believe me."

"Um. Nonetheless. Thank you, ma’am," he started, then cut himself off in humiliation at the possible connotations of his words. "I must go..."

"Of course, Horatio," she relented, smoothing her shift about herself calmly. "I shall see you tomorrow at five?"

"Um," was all he said, and then wrenched open the door and nipped outside. She saw him trying valiantly not to look at the guard before the door shut behind him.

Yes, she thought. She would definitely see him tomorrow at five. This was free, and she would make the most of it while she could.

End: Thanks for Reading!

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