The Maid on the Shore - Part 9

    The Wolf in the Fold

"Every saint of God has a past; every sinner has a future."

Light, laughter, and lilting music spilled from the French doors letting onto the terrace from the ballroom, but Captain Hammond's humor was decidedly dark. He had been called Black Charlie all his life for his fearsome temper. The name surely befitted him now, for his blood was boiling. He turned and stalked purposefully across the flagstones--away from the shambles in the garden. Behind him in the shadows, Pellew's man Kennedy lay groaning quietly on the cool earth.

Wolfe, damn his eyes, could never leave well enough alone. And Burnaby! Jesus Christ and all the saints, what a lily-livered, limp-wristed, lame-brained excuse for a naval officer was that miserable shoneen. Oh, Burnaby would be dealt with. But he realized that now he would have to see about the French chit himself.

The inside of his mouth turned dry and sour. He loathed the thought of turning any woman over to a blackguard like Wolfe, but for their plans to succeed, for the Irish cause that mattered above all else, there was precious little choice. She knew too much, and if she had not already remembered what she knew, she soon would.

A few officers still hung about the garden carrying out a desultory search. The great and the good filled the ballroom and courting couples were seeking out secluded nooks along the terrace, but he thought the grand house itself would be quiet. Barring a French invasion, Minerva Pettigrew was hardly likely to leave her ineffectual husband unsupervised to carry out his duties as host.

He climbed the broad polished staircase swiftly on his long legs, pausing briefly to cast a deep scowl upon the ridiculously ostentatious portrait of Admiral Pettigrew on the landing. Hammond's countenance only grew more dour as he glanced into one over-decorated room after another along the first floor corridors. Pettigrew was nothing more than an unaccountably lucky nincompoop, but his considerable share of his fleet's prizes, not to mention his unsavory financial dealings, had feathered him a large and very pretty nest. Look at the place. These bleeding aristos seemed to think they needed a separate room for every activity known to man: libraries, music rooms, morning rooms, withdrawing rooms.

Prowling 'round her house now, Charlie found it nearly impossible to comprehend how the tall, laughing nymph he'd known twenty years ago as Minnie Burgoyne had become nothing more than the haughty, house--proud wife of a mediocre naval officer. Though the officer was knighted, to be sure, and a Vice Admiral of the Red, and both her pride and her house were on a very grand scale indeed.
The entire floor was dead quiet; the little drawing room where he had last seen the French girl stood dark and empty. Apparently she had been spirited away to a bedroom. He sighed and started up the carpeted stairs to the second floor, wishing to hell he did not still give a damn, that his heart had not leaped into his throat the moment he had seen her, standing next to her buffoon of a husband. Christ, she'd hardly given him the time of day at the ball, which was bitter indeed.

Upstairs, candlelit sconces flickered along the dark linen-fold panels lining the hall. That elegant paneling and the rich turkey carpet underfoot declaimed, oh so discreetly, the wealth, the taste, the unassailable refinement of the occupants. Captain Hammond ground his teeth. The gold braid on his dress uniform glinted in the candlelight as he walked quietly down the hall, his broad shoulders back and his head high. Were anyone to come across him, he'd merely say he was checking on welfare of the young French lady. But 'twould be better, far better, were he not seen at all.

The corridor took a turn to the right, and he stopped to listen before proceeding. His sharp ears caught the swish of a woman's skirts. Cautiously, he peered 'round the corner, his back close to the wall. The harried maid, Alberta, was just disappearing behind a tapestry-covered door at the far end hall: The service stairs; oh, very handy. He stepped out into the light, staring at the tapestry as it fell back into place.

There were two doors on the right side of the hall, both of which would look out upon the courtyard, the terrace and the ballroom along the far wing. He believed the Pellews were installed in the second of these rooms. Three doors lined the hall to his left and these appeared to overlook the broad expanse of lawn that sloped down to the River Medway and the estuary beyond. What was the chit's name? Felecia? It was likely that all of the rooms were occupied by family or guests, so she might be in any one of the other four. Or even in one of the rooms along the East corridor, where he had not yet been.

Now what? He supposed he could wait for the maid to return and watch to see which room she entered, but how to explain lurking in the corridor if anyone came upon him in the meantime? In the event, he was interrupted before he could ponder further. He had not heard anyone approach. More fool him, to be come upon so completely unaware.
"Captain Hammond?"

He would have known her voice anywhere, especially with the gentle tone it carried now, but in the same instant he realized that her rose petal perfume had already made him subconsciously aware of her presence.

"Lady Pettigrew."

He pivoted on his right foot and bowed to her formally. She returned his courtesy, her back straight, her head inclined gracefully. She was, as she always had been, a Georgian lady through and through. Even if she had no use for him, manners mattered.

Her burnished gold gown, cut with a tight, low-cut bodice and flaring skirts in the old style, showed her statuesque figure to considerable advantage. She had filled out and then some in twenty years, but carried it well because of her height. With her dark blonde hair piled up, she nearly topped him. A shopworn phrase sprang unbidden into his mind but he could not deny that it was apt. She was not the coltish girl he had yearned after, and he knew the young people all thought of her as a battleaxe, but she was still a fine figure of a woman in his eyes. She took a step closer to him.

"Are you here to...ask after Miss Felecia, perhaps?"

Now why the devil was she speaking to him so softly, almost intimately, when she had so recently been cruising the length and breadth of the house bellowing orders at all and sundry in the stentorian tones of a sailing master; when she had all but cut him dead in the ballroom?

Charlie Hammond very nearly took the easy road. He very nearly leapt upon this fortuitous opening to explain his awkward presence on the second floor of the lady's house, just as he had planned. But he didn't. Her nearness, her intimate tone of voice, her intoxicating fragrance, his awareness that she was becoming flushed, all washed over him at once. A different scheme presented itself to him instead--self-indulgent, irresistible, entire.

"I was looking for you, Min," he said, his naturally gruff voice grown quiet. He gazed with fierce intensity into her dark blue eyes.
At that moment, Minnie Pettigrew's frozen heart turned over in her breast. She could almost feel it crack. She had nearly choked to see Charlie Hammond early in the evening. Though she had neither seen nor spoken to him in almost twenty years, she had dreamed of him only last week. In the ballroom, she had been so taken aback by his commanding, unexpected presence that she could hardly utter a word.

Years of self-discipline and deportment had flown clean out the French doors. She had been painfully aware of him; could not stop herself from watching him secretly, her teeth gritted; the entire time he was making up to Susannah Pellew. And all of her most intimate memories had come flooding back, threatening to overwhelm her. Even now, vibrant memories of the sensual nature of her recent dream set her cheeks aflame.

He had not been an invited guest, even though it was no secret that Calypso was anchored in the estuary. Rather, he had been brought along at the last minute by Commodore Rushton, who had execrable manners. Well, what could you expect from a butcher's son who once had served before the mast? Still, he was a favorite at court and certainly must be tolerated. She gave herself a mental shake; "Reefer" Rushton was neither here nor there.

It was Charlie that mattered. Oh, dear Lord. Hardly a day had gone by for two decades that she had not though of the tall, wild Irish naval lieutenant who had owned her young heart. Indeed, he had owned her body and soul, she had to admit. Now he was here again, right in front of her. They were alone and he was looking at her just as he had all those years ago when they had used to meet secretly in the airy stable her father had kept for his much-prized horses.

Colonel Burgoyne could barely tolerate a naval man, let alone an Irishman, and in her heart she had known she would never be permitted to marry her Charlie. But she had a mind of her own, even then, and she had reasoned that her body was her own as well.
If she was to be married off to some fool named Pettigrew--it transpired that her father could abide a naval officer well enough if he was English, had already been posted captain, and had money--she was damned, yes damned, if she would not first give her virginity and her love where she jolly well chose. And so she did, with all her heart. In the end, her father had arranged Charlie's transfer to a man-o-war bound for America and bundled her off to the altar with a posy of daisies and a special license.

Pettigrew was a harmless enough soul, as it turned out, not unkind, not unaffectionate, but far from dashing. He was unlikely to have inspired romantic feelings in the most desperate spinster, let alone a spirited, sought-after beauty like Minerva. Once they were married, moreover, he gave in to her at every turn, which was not what she wanted at all. How could you respect a man like that?
On the other hand, she loved her daughters, Amanda and Patricia, very deeply. And though snarling lions, nor a ship full of pirates, nor the whole French army would have gotten her to confess it, she had vowed to herself all their lives that they would never be made to marry a man they did not love. Indeed, they could each hope to marry *for* love. As long she approved of the young man, of course. She had convinced herself, in her wisdom, that her approval would not be unreasonably withheld. If Patsy were to set her cap at young Kennedy of Indefatigable, for instance, she might not be opposed....

Oh, dear, how a woman's mind did begin to wander at a certain age! Regarding Charlie now, she marveled that he had never married. He had been so loving, so full of life; he seemed serious now, cantankerous, and a bit remote--as if he had too many cares. She could not help but think how much better he would have looked, how much happier he would have been if he had been in her care.

"I was looking for you, Min." Ah, her heart was cracking right open. She wondered that he did not hear.

"Were you?" she whispered, barely able to get the words out.

"Aye. A powerful thirst has come upon me. And I thought perhaps the hostess might offer me a drink." The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled.

Oh, God, he had been able to charm the skirts right off her with that smile. She had been thinking of his smile, the light in his eyes since she had greeted him coolly in the ballroom. Now, the impetuous girl still inside her took Charlie by the hand.

"Come with me, then," she said, opening the first door on the left.

Following close on the lady's heels, he found himself in yet another handsome room, softly illuminated by starlight and the rising moon. It must have been called the Chinese Room or some such, for it was tricked out with a treasure trove of Oriental objects.

"I've put the Reefer in here," she said smiling. "But I'm sure he would not mind you sampling his canary." She poured wine from a crystal decanter by the bedside.

Hammond lay his hand over hers hand as she gave him the glass. "Oh, but I am very sure he would," he replied with a lift of the glass as well as his left eyebrow. "Will you not drink with me, Minnie, dear?" She slipped her hand away and looked 'round rather helplessly, feeling a bit out of character.

"There's only the one glass."

"Ah." Charlie sat on the high bed and drew her down beside him, her vast skirts rustling against the brocade counterpane. "We must share then," he said, his voice soft, coaxing her. He held the trumpet-shaped glass near to her lips and she took it from him and drank, though she was hardly able to breathe.

"Would Pettigrew mind you sharing with me, I wonder?" He leaned across her to reach for the decanter.

"I...I don't..." she fumbled for words in the time it took for her brain to decipher that he had not actually asked, "Would Pettigrew mind sharing you with me?" Silly, and she was not a silly woman.

"Come, love, we're old friends, are we not?" He took the glass from her trembling fingers, refilled it, took a deep draught and handed it back to her. "Surely we can drink together, share and share alike?"

This time she took a long drink herself, to steady her nerves. She felt quite...unsettled. Why on earth was this room so warm? Her cloud of skirts would have kept another man at arm's length, but Charlie seemed to have edged quite close to her on the bed. She could nearly feel the heat of him. His breath puffed softly against her cheek.

"Had you come up to check on the French girl as well, then? I hope she is resting comfortably. Felicity, is that her name? Damned strange name for a Frog."

Charlie's feigned obtuseness amused her. Clearly he wanted to know about the girl. Well, what was the harm? "Her name is Felecia. Which is also a rather strange name for a French lady, and I do believe she is just that--a well brought up young lady. She is asleep, I hope, in the Blue Room over in the East Wing. One of the footmen is posted in a chair outside her door. I would never forgive myself if anything happened to her while she was a guest in this house."

Hammond only caught the sense of her words. He had leaned back on his elbows to admire Minerva's swan-like neck, the still-bright gold of her hair. Holding his breath, he reached out and grasped the curve of her waist with one hand. When she did not move away, he traced her form upward until his broad hand lay beside her breast.

She sat very still. "I was looking for Alberta," she said, trying to take in a full breath.

"What?" His voice was muffled because he had sat up again, very close to her indeed this time, and he had begun to nuzzle her neck.

"I was looking for my maid, Alberta, when I came upon you and..."

"Mmmm." He stopped nuzzling and put a thumb and finger under her chin to turn her face to his. "Kiss me, Min," he whispered. "Kiss me like you used to."

Was there ever any doubt that she would, that this was what she had wanted from the moment she had seen him again? In another instant, she was in his strong embrace, crushed against him, moaning softly as he claimed her lips, pressing them with his own. He used his tongue like a spear to enter her parted mouth, to challenge her tongue to meet his. He cupped her face with both of his big hands as he pulled away to stare down at her, his eyes fathomless, and then he bent his head again, licked her lower lip and bit it tenderly before deliberately, devastatingly covering her mouth with his once more.

She had not known that years could fall away in seconds. They could have been in a spare bedroom in her father's house, having sneaked away from a garden party. He smelled the same, he felt the same, tasted the same. Even his ragged, eager breathing sounded the same. If he did not look the same--if his hair was silver, his demeanor more dour, more careworn--what matter? He was her Charlie, come back to her, if only for this moment.

He took her hand then, just as he had used to, and placed it on his shaft where it was rising up inside his tightening britches. "Take it out, will you?" he rasped. "For the love of God, Minnie, take it out!"

"I will so," she replied, just as she had used to, lightly mocking the Irish cadence of his speech.

"But Charlie..." her voice was earnest as her fingers hovered above him.

"I love hearing you call me that again, darlin,'" he said ardently, "but please don't stop what you are doing." He took her hand and guided it to the fall of his britches. His fingers urged her on as she began working on the buttons. Her body was melting, calling out for him, for this, and she made up her mind.

"I want this," she said quietly, looking up at him. "But afterward, I am going back downstairs to be Lady Pettigrew. Do you understand?"

"Aye," said Hammond, and he really did struggle to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "I do, Min."

"I cannot remove my gown and my hair cannot become disarranged, and that is all there is to it."

"Yes, Min."

"But that still gives us quite a bit of latitude, as I recall," she said, giving him a rather lewd wink.

"Oh, Jesus and Mary, take it out, will you, woman?"

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It was growing thick and hard with his longing for her and it jumped in her warm hand as she stroked it. Delicately, she rubbed her thumb over the swollen crown, spreading the drop of pale liquid that appeared there. With her other hand she cradled his balls, tumbling them gently. Her intimate touch would have driven him to distraction in his youth. She found it deeply arousing to realize how much more he was in command of himself now. She leaned her head on his shoulder.

Charlie was caressing her breasts where those white, alluring globes mounded up above her constricting bodice. The fragrance of warm rose petals drifted up around him and her lovely skin was soft, still smooth beneath his touch. Her hands on his cock were leading him to paradise, making him gasp again. For the sheer joy of startling her, he shoved one hand inside her dress to seize an entire breast, pushing her down on the bed at the same time.

"What on earth are you trying to do, Captain?" she asked, in a tone of voice exquisitely balanced between playful lover and society matron.

"I'm trying to get at your titties, what do you think? If I can't have the dress off you, you must at least give me that!"

His sputtering frustration made her laugh. He had always made her laugh and there had been so little laughter in her recent life, she was afraid that once she started, she might not stop. But though it would do her the world of good to do nothing but lie here and laugh, there were other pleasures to be had.

"Help me up, then" she said after a minute, and the slightly bewildered, still rampant sea captain gallantly gave her his hand and helped her to stand beside the bed. In no time at all, she bent over at the waist, taking care to keep her head up so as not to dislodge her carefully arranged hair. She gave her bodice a quick tug and her two soft, round breasts popped right out.

"You see," she chuckled, as she straightened up to face him. "You had only to ask..."

Charlie's response was to throw off his uniform coat, tug loose his neck cloth, and clasp her half-naked body to his. He looked down to watch her nipples abrading against his waistcoat. "You always were a vixen," he growled, sliding a hand up to weigh one ample breast in his palm, stroking the rosy brown nipple into stiffness with his thumb.

He kissed her again, plundering her mouth, grasping her bottom so that he could grind his hardness against her body. All the layers of clothing, those plagued skirts and petticoats, made her seem elusive, miles away from him, and he groaned in aggravation.

"How are we going to do this, then?" he asked, beginning to feel a bit desperate.

"Oh, I've an idea for that too," Minnie said brightly.

"I'll just bet you..." was all he could get out before she sat him down in a damask-covered straight-backed chair. She stood in front of him and began hauling up her petticoats one by one. His hands seemed to find her knees of their own volition, for he could barely see a thing in the dim light with all of that cloth flapping 'round. He began stroking her legs, from the tender spots behind her stocking-covered knees to the tops of her thighs. He was just beginning to reach higher, to search for that mossy little nest he remembered so well, when...Oh, Christ she always was a forward girl.

Minnie grasped one his hands and guided it to the spot he had been seeking, crooning wordlessly as his fingers slipped into the seeping moisture, then glided deeper into her yearning cleft. Ah, the little pearl was just there, he brushed his fingers over it softly, back and forth. In a matter of moments he felt her folds begin to flutter and she pushed his fingers all the way inside her as she began to contract repeatedly around them. Her deep moans were sweet music.

He laughed then, the first genuine laugh she had heard out of him this night. "You didn't used to have such a hair trigger, did you, love?"

She was still panting, but he could hear the delight in her voice. "Oh, but you did. At times, you did."

"I'll have at you all night long if you want me to."

"I believe you could at that." She shifted and took his sturdy affair into one hand, reaching across his shoulder with the other to brace herself on the back of the chair. She could not help but cry out as she slid herself down onto his thick member, taking in all of him, feeling him fill her.

"Ah, ah! Charlie..." All the billowing material of her gown was compressed between them or flowing out behind. Her generous breasts were presented as a jiggling feast for his eyes and his mouth. He burned a trail of kisses across those heaving hillocks, then raised his head.

"Yes, say my name like that. Say it again."

"Charlie!"

He clasped her waist to guide her as she rose and fell upon his lap, and her sheath welcomed him, bathing him in the silky liquid that was flowing out of her. He had been suckling one taut nipple, but now his head fell back so that he could look up at her. Her face was flushed and her own head thrown back, but barely a hair was out of place. God, how he would have liked to have those hair pins out, to have her out of that gown and naked on the bed. No, on the floor! Oh, what did it matter, as long as he could have her?

She was clutching the chair with both hands now while he took hold of her hips and began to thrust himself up forcefully each time he pulled her body down to meet him. And with every thrust, she felt the tension building up in her again. Her sex was hot, swollen with arousal; she was keenly aware of how deeply he entered her, of his muscled thighs beneath hers, his long fingers gripping her, moving her at the pace of his choosing. That pace was faster now, his thrusts shorter and harder. She had thought he would climax soon, but he slowed again, moving her high so that his penetrations again became long and deep. His control was superb. He seemed able to go on and on and, oh God, she wanted that too.

What he wanted was for her to come again, to come while he was inside of her. All he desired at this moment was to feel her quim shudder and clutch his cock as she was overcome.

"Stand up," he told her, so that he was out in the cold, but only for a moment as he himself stood and turned her 'round to bend her over the edge of the bed, rolling and gathering her skirts up behind her. Again he entered her, slipping easily up inside that deliciously moist channel until he had buried himself completely. His movements were deliberate, measured; he knew what he wanted and he knew how to get it. Snaking one hand 'round the top of her thigh, he caressed her tender mound, pushed his fingertips just inside, stroking slowly alongside that fragile pearl, a provoking counterpoint to his thrusts.

She did not want to think how Charlie had learned to do this. In his youth, he had made up for any lack of finesse with sheer unbridled enthusiasm. This was skill, and confidence, and control. God knew where....

"Oh, my God!" she cried out as the second climax rushed from the edge of her consciousness to open up inside the center of her quivering body. It was incredible, heavenly to feel him filling her while her sex clenched around him again and again.
He held himself still while she convulsed for long moments, shuddering beneath him. Those strong contractions and her blissful moans were pushing him past his own point of no return. He plunged into her as far as he could, over and over. His stones tightened up beyond bearing and the pressure to release himself flowed the length of his long, thick cock, until he climaxed at last, his seed spurting forth into the one place he had yearned for lo these many years.

"You're mine, aren't you, Min?" he demanded roughly, when he could speak again. He had withdrawn carefully, taking care not to stain her gown,--though he could not be responsible for the petticoats--and now lay sprawled on the coverlet looking up at her. He reached to brush her cheek with the back of his fingers. "You were always mine. Tell me that it's true."

Minerva had stood up and was slowly putting herself to rights but she stopped now to sit beside him, to stroke the ruffled hair back from his brow.

"Yours, in my heart," she answered. "But I am Lady Pettigrew in the eyes of the law and society. And that's how matters will have to stay."

He sighed and sat up. There was much left to be done this night. He had only meant to distract Minnie and take his pleasure in the process; he had never meant for his emotions to become engaged again. He wanted so badly to take her away with him now, this very minute. It was the past all over again. She would not leave with him then, either.

"There's something I have to tell you, Charlie. After tonight, I want you to know. It's about my older daughter, Patricia. You met her at the ball this evening."

He nodded, lost in his own dark thoughts.

"She isn't a Pettigrew at all. Not really. She's yours, Charlie. You are her father."

Continued in Part 10

One addional installment of The Maid on the Shore, which is a Pass the Pen Challenge, has been posted, but the story remains a work in progress. If you are a member of HHaH, you can read the story so far in the Archive. If not a member but would like to read the other chapters (all terrific!), contact me and I'll see what I can do.

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