The General’s Wife: An American Revolutionary Tale (25 page)

She thrust her hips against his hand, her face twisted in agonizing rapture, looking as if she were going to scream. He wished he could let her, wanted so much to hear how he was giving her pleasure. He cursed the war, the fort, their forced secrecy, and propriety. He covered her mouth with his own as she took him with her to the heights, then came down again sated and breathless.

* * * * *

Sam rolled over, his body heavy with sleep, his cock having ideas of its own. He reached for Clara, finding instead her pillow, still warm. He clutched that to his chest and reached some more. His dreams distracted him with too many noises, banging, running, metal clanking against metal. All he wanted was Clara’s lovely body knowing how it would fit his own perfectly. He stretched further across the mattress.

“Captain?”

It was a man’s voice. It must be part of the blasted dream. He ignored it.
Clara
. He needed Clara.

“Sam?” the voice repeated.

He shot straight up in bed. “Patrick! What the devil is going on?”

“It’s morning, sir,” Pat dutifully answered, his lips twisted in an unsuccessful attempt to not grin as he took in Sam’s naked, excited state. “You’ve overslept.”

“Where’s Clara?” Sam looked frantically around the room.

“You mean Lady Strathmore?” Pat glanced at the alcove curtain obscuring equally frantic activity behind it. “It appears that she is dressing in the annex.” He raised an eyebrow at the faint impression of a body which had not very long ago lain on the bed next to Sam. “Should she be somewhere else?” he inquired. “Sir?”

Sam looked down at himself then up at his friend, catching Pat’s meaning. “No, no, of course not,” he grumbled and ran his hands through his hair. “What needs to be done today, lieutenant?” He got off the bed to search for his drawers amid the garments strewn on the floor.

Pat took a seat at the desk. “We have to go over the list of needed supplies, you know, the ones we were expecting from Bridgers—”

Clara appeared in the doorway of her little room, wide-eyed and frozen. She caught Sam’s eye then continued downward, perusing his semi-aroused, naked physique, all the while biting her lower lip.

“Good morning, Lady Strathmore,” said Pat with far too much amusement.

Clara whipped her head toward him. “Good morning, lieutenant,” she nodded, startled and blushing. “I must be off,” she mumbled and fled the room.

As soon as the latch clicked shut, Pat slapped the desktop. “Hell and damnation, you slept with her!” he grinned.

Sam pulled his head through his shirt. “Well I suppose we finally did get some sleep.”

“Sam, as your best friend and first officer, I am obliged to remind you that she is a married woman—”

“I am very much aware of that.”

“Married to our sworn enemy—”

“He does not deserve her.”

“—and as our captive—”

“‘Guest’.”

“—her well-being is in our trust—”

“For God’s sake, man, she fellates like a whore!”

Pat’s jaw dropped.

Sam combed his fingers through his hair. “Damned Bridgers must have taught her,” he muttered as he put on his waistcoat. “She’s good, Pat. Christ, she’s good. I need her.”

“Sam, this is simply not a situation we—you—can sustain. We’ve got politics to consider.” Pat moved around the desk to pace in front of him. “And are the two of you going to be able to keep this covered up?” he growled quietly. “Martha already gossips about how you’re in love with Lady Strathmore.”

“‘Clara’.”

“That’s what I’m talking about! One slip like that and Strathmore’s spies—and don’t tell me there aren’t any—will have it out for you. Let me get you a whore. I can find Prudence—”

“No,” Sam snapped. He stood in rigid frustration next to his friend knowing full well that Pat was right.

Pat touched his hair, smoothing the unkempt locks. “Sam, I could … you could use me.”

Sam stilled his hand and brought it to his lips for a brief kiss. “No Pat. We have to be even more careful. Truth is I would rather be caught in bed with the general’s wife than with you. I might get shot by the general, but I would most definitely hang if I were found with you. We both would.”

Sam gazed at him, their fingers entwined, the desire for more of Pat’s touch so palpable, so dangerous. Instinctively, he moved closer until their lips brushed lightly, inexorably sparking a need to explore his mouth. For a brief moment, Sam reveled in the forbidden kiss, a kiss that, despite the damnable law, felt as right as a woman’s.

“You need a shave,” Pat complained when they parted.

Sam rubbed his cheeks. “Yes, I do.” He filled the basin with more water. “Look, give me some time. With Bridgers dead there’s no need for her to escape, so there’s no reason to keep her in my room, but no else one will know that. No one will be expecting her to return to the women’s dormitory. Yet.”

Pat sat back down at the desk and crossed his arms. He gave Sam a dubious look.

“Please, Pat. Indulge me.”

Chapter Nineteen

Sebastian pulled Annabella’s supple nude body closer to him, wanting so much to protect her from anything and everything. She was the most sweet-natured girl he had ever met. She did not deserve the sorrow the fates had laid at her feet with the death of her beloved Redmond and her treatment in the Strathmore household. He, Sebastian Hawkins, would be sure no man would ever harm her again.

And yet, he couldn’t help thinking that his exhortations at protection had been far too persuasive. She had spread her legs far too willingly, and he had been far too willing to be between them. She was beautiful, she was beguiling, but she was barely seventeen. At ten years her elder, he should have known better than to seduce such an innocent. Still, something inside him insisted it was she who seduced him. Now he could not foresee a future other than being in Annabella’s arms in these extraordinary and exciting American colonies.

But there were his obligations to General Strathmore. The more Sebastian spent time with the man, the more he hated him. He was intimately involved with the general’s negotiations for the return of his wife, a wife for whom the general admittedly cared not a whit except that she was carrying his heir. Strathmore contemplated all manner of deceptive promises, only to be shot down by Sebastian’s own reminders that the Americans’ intelligence was quite possibly as good as theirs, and that the rebels would see right through any tricks and conspiracies.

Sebastian caressed Annabella’s spine languidly, tracing the peaks and valleys of each vertebrae, until he reached the soft pillowy flesh of her buttocks. His erection roused slowly while he explored his lover, until it sprang insistently from the thatch of curls at his groin and nudged against her thighs. He wanted her, he found he always wanted her, he could not stop wanting her. She, however, was still sleeping. He refused to wake her for his own pleasure. He was happy to wait. Now that she was his, he was happy to wait forever.

Forever.
His mind wandered to their future together. The possibilities seemed endless in these wild colonies, or “states,” rather. These Americans had decided they were living in free and independent states, places where any man could do as he pleased as long as he did not infringe upon the rights of his fellow man. Position at birth did not matter, only will and determination. So different from England, where Sebastian, as the third son of a fairly wealthy member of the gentry, had so few options before him, and really only one, as his father purchased his army commission without even consulting him. Of all the Hawkins sons, only he had the requisite management skills and farming blood in him. He knew his dissolute eldest brother would simply go through the income as it came in, then have to start selling off parcels in order to support his libertine lifestyle.

But here in these American states he, Sebastian, could purchase his own bit of land, could grow what he wanted to grow. Apples. He wanted to grow apples for cider, he knew that at least. He still wasn’t sure what the soil could support.

Annabella sighed in her sleep and rolled onto her back. Sebastian shifted for her, his hand now gently caressing her belly. She said she was pregnant with Redmond’s child, that although it wasn’t showing and she hadn’t been sick like her lady had been sick, she just knew. In this new life he would share with her, Sebastian was content to raise Redmond’s son—a truly American son—and hoped they would then raise a healthy, happy brood of their own. One delightful consequence of this premonition of pregnancy was that she never insisted on precautions when they had intimate relations.

She stretched against him, yawning.

“Are you finally awake, my love?” he asked tenderly.

Annabella reached down to grab his erect prick. “I suppose you have been waiting patiently.”

“Ah, not so patiently. I confess I am at bursting.”

She giggled. He loved it when she giggled, laughed, enjoyed herself. He wanted to never see her cry again. She clawed playfully at his body indicating she wanted him on top this morning and he heartily obliged. The moment he entered her warm, inviting flesh he realized how close to bursting he really was. Her sleepy satisfied moans made him comprehend how much he wanted to find a life for the two of them … a life of freedom … with no limitations … a life that was of their own making and not according to the dictates of a society no longer viable in this modern age.

Oh God, what if the British won? Then we would have nothing…

Annabella writhed beneath him as he plowed into her.
No, never.
They were not going to take this away from him. The British could not win. He would not let them win. The Americans must be victorious in their revolution.

With his resolution, Sebastian fervently spent his seed deep into the womb of his beautiful, fertile, free-born American compatriot.

* * * * *

Chatter in the sewing circle was that Constance Gibbs was coming to Fort Revolution during the final days of her sister Susie’s pregnancy. She had been convalescing at Mrs. Blanchard’s Home for Women—a useful euphemism for a whorehouse—farther up the Hudson, but was finally recovered enough to travel. Clara was tormented by thoughts of how best to handle the situation. What does one possibly say to the woman who was beaten almost to death by one’s husband? The woman for whom one had committed murder?

Constance, however, turned out to be a very sweet girl, polite and endearing. Clara was immediately set at ease in her presence. Somehow it also helped that Constance, with her creamy skin, full smile, and bounteous body, resembled Annabella, albeit blond and a little taller. The two were able to talk privately for a few minutes in a corner of the workroom after all the other women had said their hellos.

“Miss Gibbs—”

“I know who you are, my lady. Please, call me Connie.” Her blue eyes shone with sincerity.

It felt strange to be on such intimate terms so soon, but the Americans had very different ways. “Thank you,” she nodded. “Connie, please understand that I know my husband to be emotionally cruel, yet I had no idea he could be so physically cruel. If I could have stopped what he did to you, I would have. With all my heart I would have.”

“I understand, I do. My lady—”

“Please, ‘Clara’.”

Constance smiled warmly and took Clara’s hands in hers. “Clara, how is the baby?”

Clara’s stomach turned. Constance knew she had been pregnant. Of course, her husband need not bed his own wife if she were already pregnant. He must have informed his whore of this fact. “I lost the child.” Clara looked at Constance pleadingly. “Please, my husband does not know this. He must not ever know.”

“And I hope to never see your husband again, Clara.”

“Yes, of course. I wish I could say the same.” She had but a few moments with Constance before she needed to attend her sister Susie. Something else had been weighing on her mind. “Connie, did you ever sleep with Paul Bridgers?” she blurted.

Constance regarded Clara with a little bit of curiosity, and took a moment to gather her thoughts. “Yes, Clara. All the girls did. He insisted on knowing what each of us was like and, sometimes, corrected us.” She closed the space between them. “However, he never loved any of us, and we, each of us, knew it. With us, it was business. But with you, I am certain, it was different. If he woke up next to you in the morning, then it must have been love.”

“Thank you, Constance.” It was what Clara had wanted to hear. What she needed to hear.

She returned to her place at the sewing circle, and Constance started for the hospital to join her sister. She stopped when she saw Lieutenant Hamilton at the door.

“Connie,” he gasped, his face twisted in worry and relief.

He ran to her and she to him. They met in an energetic embrace, he swinging her around for a moment, before suddenly putting her down, a horrified expression on his face.

“Oh, God. I shouldn’t be doing such things to you, not in your condition.”

“Pat, love. I’m quite recovered now.” She cupped his cheek with her palm. “You can touch me, love. I
want
you to hold me.”

The lieutenant pulled her to him.

“I only ever want it to be
you
who holds me, Pat,” she said, her voice shaking with emotion.

The lieutenant dipped his head and kissed her passionately. Constance responded in kind, clinging to him tightly.

Clara and the other women in the workroom simply sat and gawked at the reunion, then watched as the couple, oblivious to the world around them, walked out and up the stairs toward the lieutenant’s bedroom.

* * * * *

Pat stared unbelieving at the scars on Constance’s back. “My God, Connie, how did you live?”

“I kept thinking about you, about coming home to you, Patrick.”

They were in his bed in his officer’s dorm. Pat had bolted the door, letting his roommates know he was not to be disturbed for this long-awaited reunion. For the first time in months, they had made love. And for the first time, it was truly as woman and man, not whore and patron. She had cried when he offered his heart and professed his undying devotion. He would never, ever not be there for her.