Taming Maria (19 page)

They, too,
were unclad, their faultless bodies displayed in nothing but a few
strategically placed strips of black leather. These did nothing but
emphasise their luscious breasts and shaven clefts, tight buttocks
and long thighs. They were totally under the control of bridle and
whip, the bit between their teeth. Adopting the attitude of the
animals they represented, they tossed their long manes, stamped
their feet in thick-soled boots and snapped their teeth at any who
approached them. Croppers passed between their thighs, pressing
into their cracks, and tails were rooted in their fundaments. The
grooms flicked them with the tips of their bullwhips and the
audience roared in approval.

Maria tried to
catch the eye of one of the pony girls, but met nothing but a blank
stare. However long they had been employed like this, it seemed to
have killed their spirit. 'Where did they come from?' she asked
Arabella, who simply shrugged.

'Who knows, my
dear? And what does it matter? I imagine it is preferable to
walking the streets. Damien has a vivid imagination, or else he has
seen something similar during his travels. I, myself, have taken
part and, believe me, becoming a mare can be quite fun.'

'You?' Maria
was dumbfounded. Her elegant aunt transformed into a beast of
burden, confined between the shafts while someone else controlled
her by the pull on her mouth on that iron bit. It was
unthinkable!

'Silly child!'
Arabella cooed. 'There are more ways than one of skinning a cat!
You have yet to learn the deep satisfaction of obeying your master
to the letter. If Damien wants me to pull his chariot then I'll
obey and so, my dear, will you.'

'Never!' Maria
clenched her fists. 'I'd rather die!'

'La! How
dramatic!'

There were no
lack of takers, the hunters, men and women, forming a queue,
awaiting their turn to take the reins. Damien was the first,
leaping into the leading chariot, seizing the reins and flicking
the whip. The ample-hipped brunette between the shafts broke into a
trot, breasts bouncing.

He completed
the course, then drew up and said, 'A race! Are you prepared to lay
wagers on your steeds?'

The bidding
was brisk, organised by his man, Johnson.

Four
contenders lined up. Four ponies flirted their tails and fidgeted.
The flag was dropped and they were off. Maria remembered the
phaeton race vividly, but there was little resemblance. She found
it utterly degrading to witness the girls straining between the
shafts and to see scarlet marks appearing on their shoulders and
upper arms as their drivers used the whip mercilessly. She rose
from her seat and it was as much as she could do to stand there and
watch this senseless spectacle, wanting to run out in the path of
the racers and put a stop to it. Damien, the instigator of this
barbaric performance, was in the lead, whipping his steed
repeatedly until blood started to flow down her back. He reached
the finishing post first and, leaping from the chariot, inserted
himself between the front of it and the girl. Then he pulled the
tail from her rectum, disposed of the crupper and mounted her from
behind, while his fellow contestants cheered and hallooed.

Careless of
being trampled, mobbed or reviled, Maria walked straight over to
where he stood, pumping in and out of the exhausted woman, raised
her arm and slapped him across the face. 'Monster!' she shouted
while the arena grew quiet.

Damien
withdrew, fastened his breeches and ducked under the shafts. A
groom led his equipage away. He towered over Maria while the world
seemed to hold its breath. 'Would you like to take her place?' he
asked, loudly and clearly. 'This can be arranged.'

'You should be
ashamed of yourself!' she stormed, losing all fear in her raging
indignation. 'How dare you treat a woman like that?'

'They like
it,' shouted several of his cronies. 'Makes 'em come off,
don't-cher-know? Nothing a wench likes more than a good beating,
followed by a good fucking.'

'They're
right,' chorused the ladies. 'Keep out of it, and stop being such a
spoil-sport.'

'You won that
round. Let's have another,' urged his enthusiastic friends. 'Put
her between the shafts. Give her a taste of your whip!'

'Not this
time,' Damien said, and his eyes were steely as they gazed into
hers. 'I have something better planned. Go to your room, Maria.
Agatha will attend you.' He swung round, shouting, 'Another bout!
Certainly, gentlemen, and raise your stakes this time.'

Charles ducked
his head under the lintel of the most disreputable tavern in
Whitefriars. It was an area of winding alleys and tumbledown houses
that made up the notorious 'Rookery', a thieves' hideout so
notorious that even the Watch refused to go there, unless
accompanied by the militia.

He had never
quite become accustomed to seedy places such as this, but it was
part and parcel of his job. Even though Maria seemed lost to him,
there remained his duty to his country. It was to this end that he
sought out an unshaven ruffian who wore tattered clothing, a
battered three-cornered hat, a rat-tailed moustache and an
eye-patch.

Charles bought
two pints of ale, sat down and rested his elbows on a
dirt-encrusted table, staring at his companion. The inn was noisy,
for evening had brought out not only those who wanted to drink and
gamble, but the hawkers as well, intent on making sales. These
ranged from match-sellers to pimps, fortune-tellers, quack doctors
and touts of every description. Charles had disguised himself well,
as scruffy as the rest. No one would have guessed that he was a
gentleman. He had learned his trade in the army and then on special
consignments, apprehending those who sold information to the
enemies of England.

'Viscount
Strafford left three days ago,' said his confederate.

'I know that,
Quint. What about Lady Maria?' Charles could hardly restrain his
impatience for news of her.

'She went
yesterday.' Quint drew a screw of paper from a broken-down pocket
and stuffed some tobacco into the bowl of a clay pipe, then took a
spill to the candle. Blue smoke arose to join the rest that
polluted the atmosphere.

'Strafford's
destination is as we thought?'

'It is, sir.
Raven Towers in Dorset.'

'His country
seat?'

'Aye. Within
easy reach of the coast. A convenient spot for folk sneaking in and
out, avoiding the customs officers.'

'Working for
France.' Charles's eyes were keen beneath the battered brim of his
felt hat.

'Exactly.'

'As we've
suspected for some time.' It was satisfying to know they had been
correct in their assumption that Damien was using his stately home
for nefarious activities. 'But why did he want Lady Maria and Lady
Arabella along?'

'As a
diversion to conceal his real motive for being there. We're dealing
with a wily character here.' Quint was an old hand at the game, and
had been Charles's associate for months. Far from a vagabond, he
was a respected member of the Government's band of undercover
agents.

A woman in a
tawdry, low-cut scarlet dress came across to wind her arms around
Charles's neck. Her gin-tainted breath tickled his ear as she said,
'You're a fine cully, to be sure. Fancy a bit? Shall we go
outside?' She hoisted her skirt high.

'Not now,' he
replied, inhaling the salty smell of sexual congress wafting from
between her legs. He was not the first man she had approached that
night.

His body
responded to her coarse invitation, although he had vowed to make
his hand his mistress until he could find Maria again, eschewing
whores and loose noblewomen alike. But, young and virile that he
was, this was hard to do.

'Aw, come on,
boy-oh,' she pleaded, painted lips pouting as she clasped his
crotch. His cock began to swell in spite of his resolutions.

He pushed her
hand away and thrust a coin into her grubby palm. 'I'm not in the
mood. Have this. Buy yourself a tot of gin.'

'You're a real
gent. I owe you one,' she said, hard exterior melting for a second
before she moved on to the next prospective punter.

Unwilling to
draw the slightest attention to himself he got up and nodded
goodbye to Quint, then said in an undertone, 'I'll keep you
informed. Be prepared to leave for Dorset.'

Though his
thoughts were distracted as he walked back to his lodgings, a part
of him was fully alert and he carried a cudgel under his jacket. As
he paused at the front door, inserting the key in the lock, a
figure darted from out of the darkness and he heard someone say,
'Charlie... no, don't turn me away!'

It was Sally,
instantly recognisable by her voice and scent. 'What do you want?'
He was brusque, still angry with her for betraying Maria.

'A moment of
your time,' she begged, the lantern above the door shining down on
her face, painting it with shadows.

'I told you
that I never wanted to see you again.' He spoke more harshly than
need be to protect himself. Memories of coupling with her tormented
him and his cock surged in his breeches. 'Why did you tell me you
had betrayed Lady Maria and myself to Viscount Strafford?'

'I don't
know,' Sally sobbed. 'To be revenged, I supposed. I was jealous,
and still am. Why do you prefer her to me? Anyway, you won't see
her any more. She's gone away. She and her aunt have been to Madame
Descartes' shop, spending a king's ransom on clothes.'

'I have
nothing further to say to you.' Charles turned, but she flung
herself at him, clinging fiercely.

'Don't abandon
me. I love you!' she cried, the tears streaming down her
cheeks.

Charles had
never been able to endure seeing a women cry. 'Oh, very well. Come
in, but only for a moment.'

Mrs Pritchard
was going to visit her married daughter and the new baby, as she
had told him when she brought in his supper. Bates had been
dispatched with messages for one of Charles's colleagues, and he
was anticipating an early night in view of the long ride tomorrow.
The thought of glimpsing Maria again set him on fire, though he
knew that discretion would be of the essence.

This was the
only time he had seen Sally since she triumphantly announced
telling the viscount that Maria had been to his house. This had
resulted in his meeting with Damien at Signor Mancini's fencing
school. It was apparent that Damien wanted to kill him and, to
protect Maria from her guardian's rage, Charles had kept his
distance ever since, though it cost him dear. Now the instigator of
the trouble was with him, pleading for forgiveness.

He was
disinclined to give this, furious with her, yet a part of him could
understand her motives. He had seen enough of poverty and
hopelessness during his travels to realise how an underprivileged
girl such as Sally would seize any opportunity to better herself.
Marriage would have been out of the question, but as his doxy she
might have expected him to set her up in an apartment and give her
a regular income. He had never intended to do this, using her
selfishly, as he had used women before, never knowing love until he
met Maria.

'I'm sorry,
Charlie,' Sally said, slumping in a chair. Her nose was running and
she wiped the snot on the back of her hand.

'You knew this
would happen one day. We are worlds apart, but I thought I could
trust you.' He stood looking down at her, then handed her a
handkerchief.

The fire had
been tended by Bates before he left, and coal glowed in the black
iron grate behind the brass guard, giving the room a cosy intimacy.
It reminded Charles of when he had introduced Maria to the
mysteries of sexual congress. Not only that, he recalled many an
hour spent there with the woman who was now begging him to pardon
her. He was tired and downhearted and he could feel himself
softening towards Sally. Life was short and he was about to risk
his once again. Damien could be his Nemesis. He had seen brave men
die in battle and since, fighting secretly against France. One
sword thrust, one bullet and it was all over. He could feel himself
on the edge. Any day it could happen to him.

Sally flung
herself to her knees at his feet, clinging to the scuffed boots,
her head back as she looked up at him. 'Charlie... please... I've
never felt like this about a man. If this is love, then certainly I
am in that state. I don't ask for much... don't expect you to take
me into keeping... just want to see you sometimes.'

'You should be
thinking of marrying, my girl. Find an honest tradesman to take you
to wife.' Charles felt ashamed of his treatment of her and all the
other women he had used for his pleasure. It was as if love had
opened his eyes. 'Have you parents?'

'My father is
dead and my mother is a washer-woman, with five young children to
feed. I was lucky to get employment with Madame Descartes. At least
I can help out at home, but I have nothing to offer as a dowry.
There's the butcher who runs a shop not far from where I live. He
has been giving me the eye, although he must be all of forty. A
widower, so they say.'

'Then
encourage him,' Charles advised, even while he responded to her
hands running up and down his inner thighs, approaching ever closer
to his dick. 'I'll give you a sum of money. It's the least I can
do.' I must be moon-struck, he thought.

'I don't want
him. I want you,' she moaned, her fingers tugging at the buttoned
flap that concealed his penis.

'Do as I
suggest,' he muttered. This was too much for his self-control. He
could feel his balls tightening and his cock swelling, hard and hot
and eager.

He grabbed her
by the upper arms, jerked her to her feet and then backed her
across the room until they reached the bed. There he flung her
down, yanked up her skirt and inserted his erection into her warm
and willing snatch. It was over in seconds, for him if not for her,
and he regretted it as soon as he had discharged.