Dewey Lambdin - A King`s Commander

She screamed a weak, thin scream, twined fingers tighter, and leaned back, trusting him to keep her from falling, as his own head exploded, as he departed his life for a maelstrom of colored stars, tumbling down a cannon's barrel into the swirling sparks and flame points of eruption. Exploding upward, delirious and aswim, reeling and rolling in a fever-dream, feeling her grip him, grip him, grip him and spasm, as their senses tumbled around the cosmos.

Utterly ruined, when he came back to his life, a few moments later, chest heaving for air. Utterly spent, as she sat back erect, then dropped, shuddering and gasping, atop him. Her soft, gentle breath gusting now, across his shoulder. Damp ringlets clinging to both their faces. Surprisingly strong little hands and arms about his neck. Yet such an utterly soft, sweet, and spent kiss did she give him in reward, her full, sweet lips brushing his so lightly, and curling upward in a smile.

He put his arms about her slim back, stroked her damp flesh from shoulders to buttocks, then encircled her and squeezed possessively, inhaling deep for his wind, and taking in every subtle nuance of cologne, scented soap, perspiration, sweet hair, and lovemaking, as if to fill his lungs with her forever.

"Je t'adore, Alain," she told him, her voice tiny, and barely audible, even with her lips near his ear. "Afterr aw' zees time… you are 'ere, encore! Je t'adore, mon coeur. Mon chou fantastique."

"Missed you, too." Alan sighed, giving her another squeezing hug and feeling a shoulder-rolling shudder go right down to his toes as he did so. "You, I adore, aussi, ma chou. Je t'adore … trиs beaucoup]"

Damme to hell, but… he sighed to himself, biting his lip but with his hands gently caressing her in spite of all; I said it, both ways-Frog and English. Damme to hell, but it's true!

"Je t'adore, ma belle amour. Je t'adore," he whispered. In for the penny, in for the pound, indeed. But it felt so good to be back!

CHAPTER

2

"Ahoy, the boat!" Midshipman Spendlove called to the heavy hired cutter, as it neared them, oars dipping in liquid gold water in an amber-tinted Mediterranean twilight.

"Jesterl" came the return hail, from their captain himself.

"Must be in a hurry, not to've sent off for his gig," Hyde opined by his side, on the starboard gangway.

"Thought we'd have been up-anchor, and away, hours ago," Mister Midshipman Spendlove rejoined. Though he had already speculated on why the captain had sent his gig back to the ship, just after he had gotten to Gibraltar 's Old Mole landing, a heavy bundle of dispatches in a canvas-wrapped case under his arm. And then he hadn't returned since noon? And Midshipman Clarence Spendlove, from previous service, knew what tempting lure still lurked at Gibraltar, to ensnare the captain… just like Dido from his Latin texts. Dido and… whatever his name was! Imprudent reality made his slim erudition flee his head.

"Mine arse on a bandbox," Spendlove muttered sotto voce, emulating his commanding officer, once he had a gander at the cutter's contents. "Mister Rydell, midshipman of the watch's duty to Mister Knolles, and inform him the captain's returning aboard. Run, boy! Mister Cony? Bosun o' the watch, there! Side-party, man the gangway!"

Spithead nightingales shrilled, Marine Sergeant Boothby and the first officer, Mister Knolles, presented swords. Marines stamped their feet and slapped walnut musket stocks in salute, as the top of their captain's hat loomed over the lip of the entry port. Crewmen of the watch, and most of the off-duty watch idling on deck, doffed hats, to pay homage.

Homage that was returned, by the doff of a gold-laced cocked hat, on Lewrie's part, once he'd attained the security of the upper oaken gangway deck.

"Mister Knolles, I…" Lewrie began hesitantly, quite unlike his usual demeanor.

"Aye, sir?" Knolles prompted, wondering why his frank and open commanding officer could not quite match glances with him, of a sudden.

"Bosun's chair, over the side, to the boat, Mister Knolles." The captain grunted. "Arad a working-party. Blackwall hitch on the main-yard stay-tackle, to fetch dunnage aboard."

"Aye, aye, sir," Knolles replied. "Mister Cony? Rig a bosun's chair. And a cargo stay-tackle hoist."

"Dismiss the side-party, Mister Knolles," Lewrie ordered, turning to peer over the side, arms spread wide on the bulwarks. "We're not receiving officers."

Ralph Knolles raised an eyebrow, stepped to the side, surreptitiously, and cast a single furtive glance over. Their lone passenger was a woman! A most beautiful young… lady? Knolles frowned. Oh, he gasped in recognition. Last time we were at Gibraltar, the captain… they said he had a doxy ashore, but…

Hell's bells, Knolles thought, with a weary sigh, before turning to supervise the working party. It was no concern of his, really, what his captain did, whom he entertained aft on-passage. Knolles had served in ships with a captain's entire family aboard, had been aboard a 3rd Rate in which every warrant, division, or department head had his "wife" and kiddies along! The solitary, celibate seafaring life was a convenient fiction, for the most part-mostly for the benefit of the true wives and families left ashore-! But, he never thought Commander Lewrie'd be…!

No, probably not a lady, Knolles sniffed in prim dismissal; an affair… most definitely an affair! … he had no business in.

You damn' fool, Lewrie eluded himself; you damn' fool! His face felt flush, and his clothing chafed him, itchy and sore. Or, perhaps, his very skin, he thought. Yet, he stood atremble with more concern for Phoebe's safety than for his repute, as she was hoisted aboard.

He'd really meant to end their relationship, had taken a fair amount of solid coin, and a note-of-hand upon his shore agent, then his London bank, to cushion her dismissal from his life. So short a time, though, in her bewitching presence, and he was as will-less as a drunken gambler.

"Zat ees effroyable" Phoebe peeped, once free of the slings of the bosun's chair, a high color to her own cheeks, but with glitter to her eyes. "Mais… ees trиs їmotionnant]" With a giggle of fading delight, she slipped an arm through his.

"Ahum… Mister Knolles, allow me to name to you, Mademoiselle Phoebe Aretino," Lewrie stammered over the social graces. "She will be sailing with us. Mademoiselle is from Corsica, originally, so…"

"Mademoiselle Aretino," Knolles said, doffing his hat, and making a "leg" in reply to her graceful curtsy. Though his expression was hellish-bland.

"Lieutenant… Knolles, enchantй, m'sieur," Phoebe rejoined, with her best formal manner. "Ah, M'sieur Spen'loove! Bonjour, encore] You are-ah well?" she cried, as she spotted a familiar face.

"Ma'am," Spendlove greeted, blushing. "Aye. Well, uhm…"

"An' m'sieur… Lapin? Non. .. pardon, merci merde alors …" Phoebe stumbled. "M'sieur Cony! Ze gran' 'ero weez ze… grenades?"

"Aye, ma'am," Cony said, preening, " 'twaz grenadoes, we used. Good o' ya t'remember, ma'am."

"Well, hmm…" Lewrie flummoxed, once the many introductions were done among the quarterdeck people, who had crowded forward, after word had gone around that a vision had descended from heaven. And that the captain had a doxy! Alan felt as a pilfering thief might, forced to run a gantlet of his mess-deck victims, and their starters or rope ends. "Cony, do you be so good as to see uhm… Mistress Aretino's… dunnage, aft? Mister Knolles, I note the wind'll serve, just. We've an hour till full dark. We could be standing out, around Europa Point, by then. Pipe the hands to Stations for Weighing Anchor, and prepare us for getting underway."

"Aye aye, sir," Knolles replied, just as glad as Lewrie to escape into something more mundane and maritime.

"I'll see Mistress Aretino aft, and get her somewhat settled," Lewrie promised, "then rejoin you. Carry on, till then, sir."

"But, isn't he married?" Midshipman Hyde queried in a whisper.

"Aye, but…" Spendlove griped, just as softly. "Met her at Toulon. Used to be… enamored, I s'pose you could call it, of our Lieutenant Scott, but he passed over when we were sunk. Didn't have anyone else to turn to, around the time of the evacuation, so…"

"Oh, like the Vicomtesse de Maubeuge?" Hyde said, his tongue firmly in cheek. "I must say, Clarence… at least the captain has grand taste, when it comes to women. Wives and doxies, hmm?"

"My word, Cony!" Knolles grumbled. "My bloody oath] So she is, well… was Scott's paramour, first? Now, our captain's?"

"Aye, sir," Cony said with a faint scowl of worry. "A sweet l'il thing, though." He'd known Lewrie's amatory appetites for years; shared 'em, in point of fact. Reveled in 'em, truth to tell! Going to sea, becoming Lewrie's "man" so long ago, had opened his eyes to life, broadened his horizons far beyond that bucolic innocence he'd known as a rustic Gloucestershire "chaw-bacon," with thatch sticking from out his ears. What enthusiasm he had for his new status as the Proper Married Man, he owed to the Lewries' fondness for each other.

And what enthusiasm he had for Maggie had been born abed with her. How else was there a Little Will in swaddlings, now, if not for prйnuptial passion? Being a practical, commonsensical sort, Bosun's Mate Will Cony knew from long experience that sailors will usually be sailors, far from home, with months between letters or news. Maggie almost kenned that, as any seaman's wife should. As they said on the lower decks… "shouldn'ta joined, if ya can't take a joke!"

Still, he'd always believed that Lewrie would be more discreet than that. He'd even spoken disparagingly of officers who carried a mort to sea, parading before the love-starved, lust-surly "people" what they could not have. If the little sauce-pot had that much influence on him, though…

"She is, that!" Knolles commented, rather wistfully. "Well… Mister Cony. Ahem. Carry on."

"Aye, sir." Cony chuckled, knuckling his forehead in salute, knowing he'd been dismissed. Knowing that Knolles had said too much to an inferior, and was seething inside for being so open.

"Dot de guhl th' cap'um woz s'sweet on, Will?" Andrews asked, once Knolles had walked away. "De one ya toi' me 'bout?"

"Aye, that she be. 'Ope she don't spell trouble. For him, or us." Cony shrugged.

"Law, Will!" Andrews guffawed, his teeth brilliant against the dusk of his skin. "It be th' same'zit always woz, bock in de Wes' Indies, durin' de 'Merican War. Jus' a whiff o' quim, not de whole garden. Cap'um, he lose his head ovah de ladies, now'n 'gain. But, he nevah lose it fo' long!"

"Mister Cony, make 'em hop to it" Midshipman Hyde called to them, snappish and still fretful. And more than a little scandalized.