Dewey Lambdin - The King

• Название: The King
• Автор: Dewey Lambdin
• Жанр: Морские приключения

Fresh from war in the Americas, young navy veteran Alan Lewrie finds London pure pleasure. Then, at Plymouth he boards the trading ship Telesto, to find out why merchantmen are disappearing in the East Indies. Between the pungent shores of Calcutta and teaming Canton, Lewrie--reunited with his scoundrel father--discovers a young French captain, backed by an armada of Mindanaon pirates, on a plundering rampage. While treaties tie the navy's hands, a King's privateer is free to plunge into the fire and blood of a dirty little war on the high South China Sea.Ladies' man, officer, and rogue, Alan Lewrie is the ultimate man of adventure. In the worthy tradition of Hornblower, Aubrey, and Maturin, his exploits echo with the sounds of crowded ports and the crash of naval warfare.

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She didn't stiffen up as he massaged the back of her hand, nor did she quail as he turned it over and held her small, work-roughened hand in his. He pulled her gently to her feet, towards him as he pushed back his chair. She leaned forward even before he could rise, and in a moment, she was seated on his lap and he was raining kisses on her slim young neck, on her cheeks, and their lips met in a first, clumsy little maidenly kiss. He put a hand to the back of her neck and she opened her mouth to his pressure, slipping her arms about him, warming to his play quickly. Too quickly for the shy maiden she seemed.

"Lor', they warned me 'bout London, they did, sir," Abigail chuckled softly between kisses. "Weren't no diff'rent man any house a girl could work for in Evesham nor Birmingham, neither."

"At least the men are gentlemen, Abigail," he whispered. "The game's the same, city or country."

"I can't afford t' lose my position, though, sir," she complained gently as he slid a hand under her skirts and stroked his hand over her warm, incredibly soft and slim young thighs. "If'n I get turned out with no ref'rence, they's not a house in London 'd hire me, 'cept a bawdy-house."

"You do for me, like you do Mistress Harper, then," Alan said, thrilling to the way she was shifting her slight weight on his lap.

"She gives me two shillings a week," Abigail suggested coyly.

"I'll match it," Alan promised. "And on your next day off, I promise you a pretty new hat. A ride in a coach, a grand supper."

"Like a real lady, sir?" she sighed, parting her thighs so he could stroke her downy groin. She leaned hard into him in passion.

"One day a week, you can play the lady," Alan swore, too afire at that moment to care. "As long as we may play."

"You will be careful, won't you, sir?"

"Go lock the door," he ordered.

She was too young to need a set of stays, and had only thin, unsupported linen petticoats on under her sackgown. Alan had but to unbutton her down the back and gather her dress around her waist, and he was rewarded with soft, warm, tantalizing flesh under his hands and lips. Smooth young legs wrapped around his hips under his robe as he spread it to cover both of them. Pert young breasts that stood up proud as islets even flat on her back.

"Got t' hurry, sir, before the missus…" she pointed out as he licked and kissed and stroked her into flames, taking time with her mounting need as most would not. Pretty young house-servants were fair game for the sons, the fathers, the butlers and footmen. Too poor to be able to complain they were, mostly. Or too willing for the game to continue, as long as they didn't get caught, or turned up with a jack-in-the-box. Town servants would be turned out come summer, anyway, to spend several months trying to eke out an existence on what pitiful few pence they'd managed to save, until their families returned from summer homes in the country. London was full of part-time courtesans, willing servants such as Abigail. Some like Abigail, indeed, who were more than willing, if they could make some extra money on the side from it, get enough to eat for once, be rewarded with gifts of nicer clothing than most housekeepers begrudged them.

It was a quick, furtive sport, for the most part, done at the top of the stairs, across an unmade bed, in a rarely visited garret storage room. Fast, furious and rapidly over: that was what Abigail had grown used to. Not this langorous, incredibly sensuous stroking and kissing. Hands and lips touching her in places she had never known. Her breath came fast as she swooned with anticipated pleasure, with restless want, fear of discovery a spur to her abandon.

He entered her at long last, his member sheathed in a sheepgut condom, and she bit her lips and turned her face to cry out into the pillows. Experienced she might be at house-games, but still young and snug, reminding Alan of his temporary "wife" among the Creek Indians, Soft Rabbit. She'd been that hot and moist, that firmly gripped around his engine. And that wildly exuberant.

I may be Hell's own bastard with the women, Alan told himself as he drove deep into her and reveled in how she heaved her hips in synchronicity with him. Them that want to play. But never let it be said I left the little dears wanting for anything!

He held off his own explosion as Abigail clung to him like a squid, buried her face into his neck and squawled and mewed in climax, wishing she could scream out loud in ecstasy. Then she fell away limp and dragged him down atop of her, showering his face with weary kisses.

"Lor', sir, you're a terror," she shuddered, weak as a kitten. "Thankee… for takin' time, an' all? Can't say when I cared so much for it last. Oooh!"

Alan rose up on his hands to loom over her, and began to stroke into her once more, long and slow, delighting in her surprised look.

"Don't you be teasin' me, now, sir," she whispered, beaming an expectant smile up at him from the pillows. Her red hair had come half unpinned from under her mobcap, and she swiped a tress away from her face. "An' did I please you, too, sir?"

"Not yet, Abigail," Alan grinned, punctuating his remark with another, deeper and firmer thrust. "But you will."

"Oh, darlin'!" She gaped at his meaning, lifting her knees once more. "Hurry! Gallop away, fast as you like! I… oh… it feels so good! So… bloody… good!"

An hour later, she came back, asking if he wanted some more coffee brewed, since he could not go out for it. That was an excuse for another bout of "the blanket hornpipe." Nothing shy about this time, and they were bouncing across the bed and giggling in covert joy almost before she could set the tray down.

She returned in mid-afternoon with tea and a Cornish meat pasty, and had at each other again. It was too cold to go out for a meal at a two-penny ordinary, she assured him. They snatched another fifteen minutes of utter bliss, with her sprawled face-down on the side of the high bed and her skirts thrown up over her back.

It was almost a relief for Cony to come back from bis day off and putter around the rooms, ranting happily about how grandly he'd been received by the Chiswicks when he visited them. Cony was the one to brave the cold and fetch a meal from the handiest ordinary, though Abigail assisted in laying the table, and gave Alan a most fetching smile or two while Cony had his back turned.

"Wind's come more sou'westerly, sir," Cony opined finally as Alan prepared to turn in early that evening. "Snow stopped, an' h'it's turnin' t' rain, looks like. Be thawin' t'morro', thank the Lord."

"Filthy streets," Alan yawned, nodding by the fire with his feet up in the second chair and a blanket over his lap while he read a book about the recent war that was as factual as a Turkish rug merchant. "I'll try getting out to visit tomorrow. Set out my boots, if you would, and give them a daub or two of blacking. We'll coach where we're going as well.

"Aye, sir. That be all fer the evening', then, sir?"

"Yes, you turn in early, Cony. Enjoy a yarn or two with the rest for a change."

'Thankee right kindly, sir, that I will. Goodnight, sir."

All in all, a grandly satisfying day, Lewrie thought smugly as he drowsed by his fire with a book in one hand and a brandy in the other. His personal chronometer read eleven, the one he had "borrowed" from a Spanish brig off Cuba. Time to turn in, he decided.

There was a soft scratching at the door.

"Surely not," Alan whispered in delight, rising to open it.

Abigail slipped in and shut the door softly behind her, opening her arms to be enfolded and lifted off her feet. Her slippers fell off, and under her thin flannel bedgown, she was as toasty-warm as a bed of coals.

"Just wanted t' stop by an' see if you needed anythin' more tonight, sir," she said grinning. 'Turn your bed down? Warm the sheets for you?"

"Off for the night, are we, you little minx?" Alan chuckled, carrying her toward the bedchamber.

"If you wants, I am," she suggested, bolder with him now.

"I wants," Alan agreed. '"Deed I do!"

Chapter 4

"So you see, Sir Onsley, I thought it best if we came to you for advice regarding Burgess' future," Alan told his host. Admiral Sir Onsley Matthews was all tripes and trullibubs, fat as a porker before slaughter when Alan had served on his staff at Antigua, and now he'd been retired by a supposedly "grateful" Admiralty, had put on enough weight for three all-in wrestlers. He'd never been blessed with the brains God promised a titmouse, but he knew just about everybody who counted, and even in retirement controlled bags of patronage and "interest," the lifeblood of a successful career.

"Damme, Mister Lewrie, but yer concern for the welfare of a colleague does ya credit," Sir Onsley heaved with deep breaths as he lolled in his wing chair, one foot up on a hassock-a foot wrapped in hot, damp cloths, to alleviate the agonies of the Admiral's latest bout of gout. "And these bona fides, Mister Chiswick, sir, shew much the same enterprise and pluck as I've come to expect from our Alan. Like bookends, you are, lads. Hewn and carved from the same hearty oak!"

"You're too kind, Sir Onsley," Burgess remarked, sitting prim and nervous on the edge of his chair by the roaring fire. He wore his best pale blue "ditto" suit, with a plain, long-skirted older waist-coast, and clutched a black cocked hat across his knees. His own glass of brandy sat untouched on the side table.

There hadn't been much enthusiasm shown for his efforts to get a position so far, and the Chiswicks had prevailed upon Alan to see if he had any influence with anyone at all, a task Alan had happily undertaken because it would allow him to see Caroline almost every day.

"Devil I am, young sir, devil I am," Sir Onsley maundered. "I say no more'n the plain truth. I'm a plain old tarpaulin hand meself, not given to pissin' down some young'un's back for no cause."

Oh, spare us, Alan almost groaned! Sir Onsley's flagship Glatton hadn't stirred from her moorings once in a full three years' commission, and had been rumored to be hard aground on a reef of beef bones. It had been his small ships and tenders to the flag that had done the dirty work against the French, Spanish and Dutch and had reaped Sir Onsley a princely one-eighth of their prize money, which had sent him home rich as Croesus to a place on the Board of Admiralty, where he'd drowsed the last three years of his career away.

Still, he was a useful old stick, Alan thought, and kept his expression respectful and admiring. Who knows, Alan might actually have need of his good offices in future, slim as that chance might be now there was peace, and nine-tenths of the Navy laid up to rot.

"Been to Sam Hood about this yet, Mister Lewrie?"

"Not yet, Sir Onsley," Alan replied. "I did write to him, just a short note. No reply so far. I doubt he recalls me, fond as he might have seemed after Turk's Island. I'm sure he passed it off as one more half-pay officer looking for employment for himself."

"There's devilment afoot still in this world, young sirs," the old admiral warned them, laying a thick, be-ringed finger to the side of his rather large and drink-veined nose. "Losin' this war's encouraged the Frogs no end. Their Navy showed rather well in the East. I know not why the nation feels so secure. All I hear up in the House of Lords is deficits and bankruptcy, hand-wringin' and budget-cuttin'. Meantimes, they're over there on the Continent just diggin' like the furtive rats they are, looking for an openin' to throw us over for good and all, damme their blood. And heroes such as you pair sit on the beach, twiddlin' your thumbs, instead of being allowed a chance to stop their frightful business wherever it emerges."

Alan stifled a yawn, covering it with another sip of brandy. He paid court to the Matthewses at least twice a fortnight when they were in London, to keep his low rent on his set of rooms, and to lay his ear to the ground for any hint of great affairs that could help him prosper. He'd heard this screed, chapter and verse, too many times before to rise to it this time. He nodded sagely, though, which Sir Onsley took for much the same hearty approval as earlier.

"Lewrie there's a nacky one, the sort of young feller who knows I speak the truth," Sir Onsley pointed out to Burgess. "By God, Mister Chiswick, sir, if Alan'll speak for you, that's good enough for me. I can't promise you an easy place. I'll not say more now. Too many plans afoot at the moment. But a place, I can promise you, and there's my word on't for sure!"

"That's marvelous, Sir Onsley!" Burgess gasped. This interview had seemed the last slim thread of hope to save him from bringing in the sheaves for his uncle Phineas, and Alan had privately assured him it was bound to be disappointing at the end, but suddenly here was this word of assured employment. "As a serving officer, sir? Pardon me if I inquire at least a little."

"With the East India Company," Sir Onsley nodded. "I'm on the board. I'm privy to certain… nay, it'll be discovered to you later. I should think at least as a lieutenant, Mister Chiswick. Tell me now, and tell me true if you're a mind for it. And a heart for it. It'll be damned hot and dusty duty, halfway round the world and like as not it'll be sickness, bugs and flies, and God knows when you'll lay eyes on your dear family again in this life. But 'tis a duty like as not'll confound our foes better than anything you'd accomplish in a lifetime of regular soldierin'. Are you game for it?"

"I am indeed, Sir Onsley!" Burgess piped up. "Lead me to it!"

"ToppinM" Sir Onsley shouted back, wincing a little at the end as he moved his gouty foot and suffered a spasm of agony. "I'll speak to the Board tomorrow. Leave me your bona fides and all that to show them. Irregular… skirmisher… Indian fighter. Just the sort of lad we need. Mister Lewrie, I do believe Fate sent you to me with young Mister Chiswick's plaint at exactly the right time."

"And grateful I am you could do my friend a service, Sir Onsley," Alan replied, flat aback at this energetic development. He had not seen the old twit that bombastic, or awake, in years. And Alan could hardly wait until they could get back to St. Clement Street to tell the rest of the Chiswick family. Most especially Caroline. She would be impressed to no end that it was Alan's influence and connections that had turned the winning trick for her brother.

It would disappoint her, though, that he would have to sail around the world, into that land of pagan Hindoos she had feared so much, where Burgess would be exposed to so many cruel diseases and chances to die a young, untimely death. Matter of fact, Alan wondered if he'd done Burgess much of a favor at all. Sir Onsley was sober enough to not let slip what sort of devilish danger this new duty was, but it didn't sound like anything Alan would want a part of, not if he had at least five minutes' warning, and a head start. Some new wrinkle on what Lieutenant Lilycrop of Shrike had termed "war on the cheap," dreamed up by some crystal-ball gazer, map reader and quill-pusher who had no idea about what life was like outside his own doorway, much less how deadly it could be for the men on the shitten end of the stick a world away.

"Mum's the word, my lads, until you hear from me by letter," Sir Onsley cautioned. "But stand ready to shift yourselves at a moment's notice. No man is to hear word of this appointment."