Riverbreeze: Part 2 (57 page)

They were both panting now. It appeared that Sparshott might be tiring. Rob took advantage and advanced quickly, aiming for Sparshott’s sternum, thrusting from high above. Sparshott parried, and their momentum carried them past each other. Rob took advantage again and kicked at Sparshott’s buttocks as he shot past.

The crowd roared with laughter, and cheered. Sparshott turned quickly and glared at Rob. Rob smiled to himself, gaining renewed energy and confidence.

He attacked Sparshott again, stepping quickly, taunting him with fast thrusts at his stomach, heart, shoulder, and hip. Sparshott defended himself admirably, deflecting Rob’s point away as he made his own thrusts. They ended this rally when their blades caught and Rob forced Sparshott’s blade down to the ground. Freeing himself he hit Sparshott in the back of the neck and retreated.

Sparshott was indeed tiring. He was breathing heavily and his face was flushed red. But he didn’t give up. He attacked recklessly, slashing at Rob’s stomach, then his legs. Rob easily jumped out of the way, then attacked, slashing and thrusting. Their blades rang and screeched as they made contact.

Finally Sparshott made his final move, feinting in one direction and lunging in the other. Rob barely moved out of the way, deflecting his sword point away before lunging himself, and stabbing Sparshott right in the shoulder.

There was an awful cry from Sparshott and triumphant shouts from the crowd.

“First blood has been drawn!” Thomas Paulette yelled. “Robert Bassett is declared the winner!”

There were more cries and shouts from the crowd. Robert couldn’t believe he had won. He saw Jamie coming towards him, a huge smile on his face, words of praise coming from his mouth. Rob responded by taking a half turn towards Jamie and looking in his direction. He wanted to share this moment with him. Feeling overjoyed, he let out a jubilant shout himself and raised his arms over his head in victory. He had done it! He had won! He had beaten that arrogant, lousy whoreson. He felt wonderful.

But suddenly there were more shouts, urgent shouts from the crowd. “Watch out, Rob! Watch out!” But it was too late. Robert felt a searing pain across his ribs. In shock, he looked down and saw his shirt flapping open. He dropped his rapier and clapped his hand over the slash in his flesh. Realizing what Sparshott had done, he looked up at the man, now standing back, gloating.

He should have known Sparshott would act dishonorably. He had known he would at the start of the contest, but Rob never expected this, a dirty, cheap shot after the contest was declared over.

It only took a split second for Rob to decide what to do. Honor be damned! Without warning, he attacked Sparshott with a growl, rushing him. Sparshott raised his rapier, but not fast enough. Rob sidestepped the blade and grabbed it in his bandaged hand, close to the hilt. He knew the blade would not be sharp there, only at the tip of the weapon. He wrenched the rapier out of Sparshott’s hand and threw it away. Then taking his dagger he plunged it into Sparshott’s upper arm, once, twice, scraping the bone on the way out.

Someone grabbed his arms and pulled him back. Someone else grabbed Sparshott and pulled him back. They struggled against their captors, glaring and spitting at each other, but whoever held them was too strong.

“Stop! Stop!” Thomas Paulette shouted. He looked at Sparshott’s cronies who were to Sparshott’s right. Pointing his finger at them, he ordered. “Take him away from here. Take him away and never step on this property again. Do you hear me?”

“I won’t forget this, Bassett! This is not the end!” Sparshott yelled, his face twisted into an ugly mask. He shrugged off his captors then and held his hand over the stab wounds. Blood seeped through his fingers and quickly stained his shirt. One of his cronies tried to press a handkerchief onto the wounds. Sparshott batted him away.

Rob stared at him, enraged, but it was Jamie who said, “You got what you deserved, you dirty bastard!”

“It’ll be you the next time, you little shit!” Sparshott spat as he turned and strode to where his rapier had been tossed. He scooped it up and walked away with his cronies on either side of him.

* * *

Much later that night, actually around two in the morning to be more precise, back at the Bassett house, there was a loud banging on the front door.

Abigail woke first, but was too afraid to answer the door by herself. She huddled in her bed and waited for either Jamie or Robert to come downstairs, although she doubted Robert would come. He had been in a bad way when he had arrived home with Jamie and Nick Bannister supporting him. Drunk, quite drunk, he had been. In his cups; bitten by the tavern bitch; washed his face in an ale clout. However you put it, he was drunk as a skunk! But she couldn’t blame him; he had happily showed her and Elizabeth and Evelyn his souvenir of the duel, a seven-inch slash across his ribs, stitched up with black silk thread by the talented Negress, Sarah. Then he had laughed at the horrified look on Elizabeth’s face; she had been so angry she looked ready to smack him, but luckily for him, he passed out right at her feet.

No, Abigail didn’t believe Robert would be answering the door any time soon.

Jamie did instead. Complaining at the ungodly hour. Hollering at the person or persons to be patient. Give him a goddamned minute!

He opened the door and Kent Rodwell and Pugh Ward, Sparshott’s cronies, stood there. They were spitting mad. Rodwell’s eyes blazed in his haggard face. Ward looked equally disheveled and simmered with resentment. Rodwell said he had news, news that he thought Robert would be glad to hear. Sparshott was dead. Bled to death. They couldn’t stop the bleeding from the stab wounds.

Jamie stood speechless, the cold breeze threatening to blow out his candle and swirling his nightshirt against his bare legs. Stunned! Oh God! Sparshott dead. Sparshott dead!

Before he came back to himself, Rodwell and Ward had already turned and started down the path to the river. “I’m sorry.” Jamie whispered to the cold night. “I’m sorry.” He whispered again to the thousands of stars in the sky.

He closed the door with a soft click of the lock. Dazed and in shock, he slowly climbed the stairs. He went directly to Robert’s room.

“Who was at the door?” Elizabeth whispered. Robert was awake too, bleary-eyed and groggy but alert enough to understand what was being said.

“Kent Rodwell and Pugh Ward.”

“What did they want?” Robert grumbled.

“They came to tell us that Sparshott is dead.” Jamie said in a flat voice.

Elizabeth gasped.

“Dead.” Robert repeated. His voice was just as flat and emotionless as Jamie’s. He felt no sadness, no grief, no guilt, no joy, no nothing. He felt absolutely nothing.

“What should we do?” Jamie asked.

“Go back to sleep.” He said. He was so tired.

“What should we do tomorrow?”

“Nothing.” Robert said, turning over. “Absolutely nothing.”

Chapter Thirty Four: Mistaken Identity

That’s exactly what Robert did the next day, absolutely nothing but lie in bed, recovering. In fact he stayed in bed for three days, missing Sparshott’s funeral, although he didn’t think he would’ve gone even if he had been in perfect health. He also missed going to church on Sunday, where he was supposed to apologize to Dr. Harris again and the congregation at large. Now that would have to wait until next Sunday.

The fourth day he was still abed when mid-morning sun seeped through the cracks of the shutters that covered the windows. Elizabeth had already gotten up at sunrise, dressed quietly and taken care of Robin, allowing Robert to continue to sleep. She didn’t know how many days he would need to recover; she thought it best to let him be the judge of that.

He was taking advantage of that to some extent. He did need to allow his wound to heal for a few days before moving around too much, and he had developed a slight fever on the first day, which was now under control. But last night during supper he had felt much improved. Nevertheless, when he felt Elizabeth leave their bed this morning he remained, warm, snug and cozy.

Now he was dreaming:

It was a hot and humid summer day and he was nearly naked, dressed only in an incredibly soft deerskin breechclout that she had made for him. He loved being this free and open. There were no stiff rules here and no requirement to wear heavy, hot English clothing. She was dressed in her usual deerskin apron decorated with tiny shells and glass beads, her upper body completely bare. He loved to look at her: her beautiful, exotic face, her long black hair decorated with buttercups, her tawny smooth skin and her lush firm breasts with their dark prominent nipples.

They were lying under their favorite weeping willow tree, watching the pliable branches with their feathery leaves wave gently in the sultry breeze. He was giving her another English lesson, adding to the one he had given her last time, and being very intelligent, she quickly remembered the words tree, leaf, leaves, trunk, bark, branch, and branches from their last lesson. This time he added water, river, sand, rocks, pebbles, grass, reeds, ant, dragonfly and mosquito, pesky mosquito! As he swatted at one buzzing by his ear. He laughed and she laughed with him, chanting “Shoo! Shoo!” Something else she had learned from him. They laughed again and then, looking into her eyes, he touched her face, tracing the tattoos across her cheeks. He ran his fingers over her full lips and down to the curve of her jaw. She touched him in return, tracing his eyebrows, his lips, his chin. They kissed, lightly at first, then more deeply, but she wasn’t ready yet to succumb to him. She wanted to draw his visit out as long as possible.

Suddenly she pulled back and pushed at his shoulder. He looked at her in question. She rolled away and jumped up, as easy and graceful as a young doe, then laughing gaily, she skipped to the river, stripping her apron from her lithe and luscious body. He watched her with hungry and appreciative eyes. At the river’s edge she stopped and crooked her finger at him, beckoning him, and in one smooth move he also jumped up, stripped off his breechclout and ran to catch her as she splashed into the river.

He caught her around the waist and she screamed with laughter. He lifted her and she kicked her legs and twisted out of his arms. Like a sleek otter she dove into the water and swam away, splashing him on purpose with her exaggerated kicking.

They swam for some time, then floated lazily on their backs, holding hands and watching the wispy clouds float by. The sun was bright on their faces and they had to squint constantly, but that didn’t damper their ideal time together. The weather was perfect; the water was refreshing; the company divine.

He couldn’t wait any longer. “I want to make love to you.” He said, gazing into her eyes.

She nodded, smiling shyly.

Together they swam to shore, then walked hand in hand to the reed mat under the tree. They flopped down, catching their breaths, but then gazing at each other, their hearts and breathing sped up again. Soon she was panting as he ran his hands over her slippery body and then back up to her breasts. He kissed her lips, her eyelids, her cheeks, and then kissed her neck, slipping his tongue out to lick at the droplets of water. Her head fell
back as she clutched at his wet shoulders and he used that opportunity to lick down the entire length of her neck down to her collarbone and below. At her breasts he kissed and licked, then circled his tongue around one nipple. He sucked it and she moaned softly. Her fingers threaded through his hair as she make little panting noises.

She lifted his head and pulled his face to hers so that she could kiss his mouth again. And then she licked his lips and beads of water from his jaw.

It wasn’t long before he was ready to enter her and she ready to receive him. She spread her legs and wrapped them around his waist as he mounted her. He kissed her deeply and thoroughly.

He started to thrust…

He snapped awake. He grabbed his cock. One squeeze, one stroke and he would go over the edge. It would be so easy; he was so close.

But no, he would not take pleasure from a dream about Makki. It wasn’t about God or sin or morality, but decency and loyalty to his present wife. And he, at least, was a decent person and he had vowed to be loyal and faithful to Elizabeth.