Chapter 44: The Colonel's Wife

Foster sent me and George right back to New York as a team. We had our separate tasks but worked several times together to achieve our ends, either for ourselves or the Continental Congress. George would sometimes rescue a damsel from my attentions or I would come upon my friend trying to rob or assault someone, drive him off and earn his or her gratitude.

One of the people Foster told me to see about was a colonel of artillery who supposed knew all about forts and gun positions, numbers of cannon and stores of shot and powder. "I'll take the man or his papers," my officer told me.

So we watched the man's house for a day or two and found that he had a comely little wife who went shopping every morning accompanied by a slave girl carrying a big basket. The wife was young and stylish, the slave younger and rather bony, only half-grown, the husband older than both their ages added together.

George became the villain of our playlet, stopping the pair on a quiet street and asking the young wife for a shilling. When she refused, looking a bit frightened, he grabbed one of her ear bobs, twisted it free and ran. I chased after him; he skidded around a corner and stopped, handing me the thing, and I returned a few minutes later with the small jewel to receive a curtsey, praise and thanks. The young wife smelled good and, although flushed and frightened, rubbing her sore ear, seemed sure of herself. The slave girl had run, leaving her basket behind.

"Would you walk me home?" the woman asked after introducing herself as Mrs. Abercrombie, reinstalling her earring and looking about for her slave.

"Of course," I said, picking up the basket and offering her my arm. "Have you had trouble before?"

"Never," she said, still breathing rapidly, pressing my elbow to her body.

"Anyone as pretty as you shouldn't be out alone," I said in a fatherly tone, her basket in my hand.

She looked up at me and wrinkled her brow. "I wasn't," she said. "Annabelle just took fright, the silly girl."

"City's full of cutpurses and men like that fellow, probably a rebel deserter."

"Really?" she said, holding my elbow a bit more firmly, pressing my arm against her stay-supported and upright breast in a friendly manner. I nudged her a bit each time she rolled toward me, prodding her nipple out of her lace from time to time.

When we reached the front of her brick house, one probably confiscated from some rich Dutchman, she curtsied again displaying her swelling chest, thanked me profusely, took her basket, lifted her skirt and mounted the stairs, showing me a fine leg. Before she opened he door, she turned and smiled. "Won't you come in and have some tea or something?" she asked coyly.

"Another time," I said, smiling back and knuckling my brow as my yard faded, crestfallen if not astonished. My phallic horn, I had become convinced, had a mind of its own.

She licked her lips and entered her home, closing the door slowly behind he, looking disappointed.

It was a good start, and the next day I just happened to bump into her and her slave in the market. We said good day to each other, and I offered to buy them a sweet and some coffee. She sent the slave off toward a bakery on a make-work task and joined me in a nearby coffeehouse, fluttering her skirts and her eyelashes. The place was thick with tobacco smoke and several eyes followed us to a table. Only one or two other women were in evidence, and they might not have been quite proper ladies judging from the thickness of the paint on their faces.

"I hope you won't have trouble if you're seen with me," I said as we sipped the bitter brew.

"Course not," she said. "My husband trusts me. Don't you think he should?""

"What's he do?" I asked, admiring her clear skin and dark eyes, they flashed almost purple in the dim light. She seemed to be stifling a smile.

"Army officer," she said proudly. "Quite well thought of, up and coming as they say."

"British?" I asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"Of course, of course. His uncle's in the House of Lords."

"My, my," I said, trying to look impressed. "Is this his career, the army?"

"Perhaps." She tasted a small cake. "He had several children from his first marriage, two boys in the army now. One's out in India."

"Think of that," I said as our legs touched, accidentally perhaps, my knee between hers.

"In fact, I've not had time to meet many people, he's been so busy."

I slid my hand up her stockinged thigh until my fingers were close to massaging her private areas, very gently of course, tickling her hairy mound under her silk and linen. I watched her eyes widen a bit as I sipped my tea and fingered her. She smiled and wiggled as I opened her lips and sought her tiny prick in its deep folds.

"Perhaps we could get to know each other better," I suggested, prodding her persistently with a knuckle at about her midline. Feeling her surge toward my prying fingers, spreading her legs a bit, I got a bolder. She nodded and squirmed, taking a sharp breath when I found an especially sensitive place that made her sit up very straight.

"What would be a good time?" I asked, rubbing harder and feeling her belly and pudenda quiver under my fingers. I believe she had become a bit moist and was certainly warm.

She swallowed. "Oh, well," she said, reaching down and pushing my hand away, but holding it in her small fist, still under her skirt. "Perhaps when he and the slaves, our servants are asleep."

"You have separate rooms?" I asked.

"Um," she said. "he's a very sound sleeper." She wiggled and smiled again as I stroked her plump thigh.

"Put a candle in the front window if it's safe. I'm sure I can reach your balcony."

"How did you know?"

"I've seen you there, early in the morning, a pretty sight." I pinched her gently.

"Why, why were you watching my house?"

"Can't you guess?" I said, kneading her leg. "I followed you."

She wriggled away. "All right," she said. "I must get back to my shopping." I withdrew slowly.

I offered her my hand, pulled her from the bench and we ended up face to face, lips and noses almost touching. I could feel her hard breasts on my ribs as she looked up at me, and I am sure she could feel my swollen horn at her navel. "Tonight," I said, and we parted.

It was well after midnight when a small flame flickered to life in the corner window of the second floor. I vaulted the low fence, dragged myself up the drainpipe, scurried across the chimneypiece and swung up on the balcony iron work feeling like a second rate Romeo. It creaked with my weight and my heart stopped briefly.

I stepped into the dark room and into her arms. "Hush," she said when she managed to pull her mouth away from mine. "He was very drunk tonight, but my bed is quite noisy. He's had me there from time to time, when he's sober. Come."

She led me to a softly cushioned and very capacious chair, a loveseat some might call it, almost big enough for two with flaring arms and big-footed legs, fumbled with my buttons and camped on my knees until I was ready, my horn reaching out toward her, jumping eagerly, its head well greased, her nightgown bunched at her waist, her smile an open invitation. Then she inched forward with her hands behind my neck until her knees were at my rump. I massaged her with my eager spear, sliding it up her warm crease and feeling her tremble as it crept down and found her tiny, moist opening and nudged between her lips as she tipped her pelvis toward me.

She gasped when our bodies joined and exhaled over and over as we began, heaving her ripe frame onto mine, mouth gaping wide, sparing herself not at all as she flexed up and down on my long, rigid spear. She did most of the hard work and achieved several robust climaxes over the next hour or so with our mouths joined to silence our shuddering pleasure.

Then when she seemed asleep, I hauled her to her big bed, tucked her in and stood, listening to her snores. I crept down the stairs and ransacked the officer's desk, found a few papers of interest, folded them into my boot, and left as quietly as I could by the side door.