The Captain`s Vengeance

was what happened in the alley behind the Maurepas bank, as sack after sack of money had been spirited out the door into a couple of farm waggons, surrounded by a gang of heavily armed men, as piratical a crew of cut-throats as ever he did see! And what was that about, Ellison wondered, a bold midnight robbery?

He'd been tempted to whistle up his own lads and try to rob the robbers! A sudden flood of money could, when delivered to Congress, be the funds to pay for America 's fore-ordained growth. The United States Government was mighty 'skint,' still paying for the Revolution years after their independence had been won. With enough money, they would not have to wait for a more assertive President in office, but…

At least Ellison had sicced one of his better men on the trail of those waggons, to see where they'd gone. That had been the best he could do, since most of his others had been let go for the rest of the night and were mostly 'drunk as Cootie Brown' by then.

And there went a shot at a little personal profit, too; profit beyond the promised reward for his covert service, which he doubted if Congress could actually pay. There was land he craved, in the Powell's Valley of East Tennessee, among good people he'd come to know, like the McLeans and Bow-mans… good neighbours, with a few pretty daughters to choose from, did he ever have a chance to put down roots and marry.

Jim Hawk Ellison drew a quid of tobacco from a pocket and cut a chew off. He'd prefer his pipe, but that was impossible if he didn't wish to betray his vigil.

'Damn you, Willoughby,' he whispered, eying the candle's glow enviously. 'Whatever you're up to, you're costin' me sleep. Even if ye are a God-cursed Sodomite, you can lay down on th' job!'

'Mmm… mon amour formidable,' Charite coo-muttered, draped delightfully light, incredibly smooth and baby-soft half atop him as Lewrie billowed the sheet high above them to float downwards, creating a cooling zephyr. 'Alain, mon coeur,' she added with a sleepily sated smile as she shifted her lazy embrace.

'Charite, ma petite biche,' Lewrie answered in kind, chuckling deep in his throat, recalling endearments he hadn't used since Phoebe Aretino, his Mediterranean mistress. He was pretty sure he had just called her a 'little doe.' And Charite was certainly that.

Only four inches above five feet without her boots, with slim hips and the wee-est little bottom, the faintest wisps of pale blond fluff below her knees, above her quim, and beneath her arms, a narrow waist that gently tapered inward above the talc-smooth swell of her hips; narrow shoulders and slim arms, but with the most heavenly, perfect breasts ever he did see, or kiss, or suckle, or lick, with darker tan areolae and cunningly puckering square nipples to worship as well.

With her hair unpinned in the privacy of his rooms, a positive flood of chestnut hair spilled down her back to her waist and now lay like a light blanket over both of them.

They had shared two bottles of champagne whilst she'd taught him Boure, which had surprisingly resembled Ecarte, with antes tossed out first. Five cards each, dealer announcing trumps, but before any play, one could discard or fold completely, build one's hand with the replacement cards, then follow the leader's play in the proper suit or trump with a higher card, or over-trump with a higher card of another suit, thereby taking tricks. The second dealing and the discards, she told him, were similar to that rube- ish Yankee Doodle derivative that they called Poker or Poquet, not 'Poke Her' as Lewrie had imagined he had heard it. Two other young Creole gentlemen had joined them, once Lewrie had picked up the game, introduced as the Darbone brothers, the older one as Claude, the younger as Baltasar.

'Pardon, messieurs,' Lewrie had taken note, 'but you and, ah… Armand bear a striking resemblance.'

'Most Creoles do,' the elder brother Claude had replied with a smirk. 'Light-coloured eyes and chestnut hair… many from Normandy arrived first in Louisiana, before the Acadians or the Spanish. And we do marry back and forth, n'est-ce pas? Armand, your mustachio's slipping again. Fais attention!' he'd sing-songed, as if they and she were long familiar with each other's company in the Pigeon Coop; this had set Lewrie's sudden possessive 'teeth' all ataunt-to, jealous even before having her.

He'd lost fourty Spanish silver dollars at Boure, and that was at small-to-middling stakes, the lion's share to Charite, or 'Armand.' At five British shillings to the dollar, that was only ten pounds, at least-nowhere near 'gambling deep,' and a cheap lesson at the price. And the Darbone brothers had bought two other bottles.

And once the last 'bubbly' had been poured and drunk, Charite had bid them a firm, no-more-gambling goodnight and had requested a gentleman to see her safely home. And though the Darbones seemed to grumble over that more than a bit, they had stood aside as Lewrie had seen her out to the street and round the corner towards Bourbon Street and his pension. Once in the relative anonymity of the dark streets, she had flung herself into his arms.

Admittedly, Lewrie had taken a callous, common moment or two to grope her like a sack of grain, to discover if he'd been gulled again, intensely relieved to reach inside her open shirt and determine that she definitely was a girl, and not a lying set of laundry items, that there was no 'wedding tackle' artfully tucked away somewhere. It was only then that he committed himself to a kiss, then they were off to the races, barely able to stay clad as they jog-trotted breathlessly to his appartement and dashed upstairs past the scandalised concierge.

'Vous comprendez, cher Alain,' Charite had seriously insisted, even as she was slinging coat, waist-coat, and cravat to the wide, and hop-tugging to get a boot off, 'this does not mean a commitment of any sort between us.'

'Completely!' Lewrie had most happily barked back, shedding his garments in fervent flurry. 'None offered on my part, and damn' thoughtful of ye t'mention it! I say, ma cherie… take a pew on the settee, and I'll have those boots off quick as a wink!'

Giggling, guffawing, tugging first from the front, then turned away from her with her boot 'twixt his legs, her other foot shoving in the middle of his back, or the cleft of his buttocks; and then Lewrie attended to her trousers, her ankles on his shoulders, and she laughing and squirming as delighted as an infant tickled mid-bath, a bold, hearty laugh not usually heard from genteel young ladies.

All but one candle snuffed, the amber shadows and flickers of light gilding them, Charite stood and slowly lifted the long hem of her lace-ruffled shirt, performing for him as he sat to wrestle out of his boots, and he was struck dumb, completely entranced, for the girl looked him right in the eyes as she did so, her coltish young thighs almost chastely crossed at the same time, and her laughter turned much softer and huskier, as if it was a dare.

'Oh… that,' Charite said with a sheepish expression when she unstrapped the sheath of her poignard from her left forearm and tossed it into a far dark corner of the sitting area.

'And, oh… this 'un,' Lewrie echoed, unbuttoning his cuffs and pushing up his left sleeve to expose his own sheathed krees, removing it and tossing it to join hers in the corner.

Completely nude, as perfect as a young Venus on the half-shell, she knelt to help him take off his boots, only pretending to struggle with the right one so she could turn about and present her delightful wee derriere, then chuckle deep in her chest as Lewrie 'helped out,' bracing a bare left foot on her mounds and enticing Venus Dimples and wriggling his toes.

Finally barefooted, he stood to peel his shirt upwards and off, but she knelt again and unpinned her hair to let it fall like a glossy silk avalanche, spilling down her back and over her breasts. She shook her mane to free it all, then swept it forward like a stage curtain as she scooted forward on her knees to press her face into his groin, and Lewrie gave out a groan of instant pleasure as soft, sweet lips were put to his straining member, as dainty little fingers gently took his measure and tickled feathery-soft down the shaft.

He tossed his shirt away and lowered his hands to her shoulders as Charite made yummy-good appreciative moaning sounds and whispered, 'Oh, la grosse verge, cher Alain! Si grande et dure. Si ardente pour moi?'

Big… hard… eager for her? 'Bloody right!' he exclaimed as he flung back his head and shut his eyes, lost to her tantalising ministrations. He felt like he sported a marlingspike, a belaying pin, and if he didn't top her that very