Chapter 79: An Experienced Virgin

The girl was obviously very unhappy. She looked impossibly young and vulnerable. She also had an incredible and desirable body.

She sat in the corner of a reasonably fashionable tavern, hemmed in by a pair of young macaronis who seemed to be pestering her to do something she did not want to do. They were whispering at both her ears and pawing her beneath the table as far as I could tell.

I had been watching this playlet for a time, admiring the rise and fall of her round breasts and the smoothness of her bare arms, the gleam of her golden hair and the sadness of her blue eyes.

When she uttered a most unladylike squawk and her eyes got very big, I decided it was time to act. I plunked myself down beside one of the fashionably dressed young men, drank off half my beer, and said politely, "What seems to be amiss?"

"Who the shite are you," said the boy, who seemed to have his left hand buried in eh girl's groin, bunching up her silken gown. I smiled at him, took his right hand in mine, bent his thumb back to his wrist and turned his arm up into the middle of his back and bounced his forehead off the table.

His similarly dressed friend on the other side of the table, sprayed spittle when he cried out, "What the hell are you doing?"

I used his friend as a ram and pushed the table into his gut, hard and fast, and he squealed. Then I yanked the one whose arm I had twisted back upright by grabbing his chin and smacking his head against the back of the bench. It was a fine sound, a very solid "thock."

I smiled at the girl and she blinked at me. "May I be of service, miss?" I asked her, knowing full well the manner in which I would like to service her.

She sniffed and blinked again, blushing very nicely. "I think they were just leaving," she said and licked her soft lips. "You might want to help them out."

I stepped out into the aisle, pulled the boy whose right arm I may have dislocated out and shoved him to the floor. I put my foot on him, eased back the table then grabbed the other one by his fancy neckcloth and yanked him up and out.

"The lady bids you good day," I announced clearly. "You are leaving."

"But, but," cried the one I had been shaking.

I dragged the other one up to his feet and when he reached for his fancy sword, I kneed him in the groin, tore his sword belt from him and handed it to the girl.

"Out," I said, and with one in each fist, I hurried them to the door and pushed them outside where the wind was brisk.

"You can't do this," cried the one who still had a weapon. His companion was bent over and had both hands between his thighs.

I produced my big bayonet, flicked open one of the lad's nostrils and unbuckled his belt. His sword fell with a clatter. "Leave it," I said.

They staggered away, one with hands to his bleeding face and the other holding his aching stones. I picked up the sword and took it in to the blonde girl who still sat where I had left her, looking bemused.

I sat down and handed her the sword. "You can start a collection," I said, "along with your shelf of broken hearts."

"Oh, that's very good," she said, "very apt and clever. But I expected more from you actually."

"Sorry," I said, drinking the rest of my beer. "Out of practice. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Oh no," she said, lifting her determined chin, "I think not. You've just run off my intended and his number one groomsman. I was to marry next week."

"Marry one of them," I snorted. "I don't believe it. You?"

"Oh yes. He's very rich and can't help being crude at times. It's the style, you know, the fashion."

"No, afraid not. My mother taught me to be polite to women."

"Did she," she said, cocking her head, "and did she teach you to ask before you acted?"

"The one that sat here," I said, "he was pawing you most rudely. Is he the one you were to marry?"

She smiled. "No. He is an ass, a buffoon and a drunk. The other one, whose ribs you probably broke, he's my husband-to-be. I saw you cut open his nose by the way. That was nasty."

"Um," I said, shaking my head. "He'll heal."

"They may come back, and bring some friends."

"Oh?" She was delectable, so young and clean, so ripe and juicy.

"So will you see me home?"

"Of course. A pleasure. Have you paid for your drinks?"

"I don't think so."

I waved, settled up for their food and drink, gave the serving girl a shilling, and then took the blonde's elbow. She looked up at me gravely and then pulled down her little jacket and stood very straight.

Three squares down the cobbled street, the two young men appeared from an alleyway, both with heavy pistols, probably from their saddlebags.

"Jimmy," the girl cried, as he cocked his pistol, "what are you doing?"

Jimmy still had blood dripping from his nose and his eyes were very wild, his chin wobbling. He obviously did not know what he was doing. The other boy seemed much calmer, much more of a threat. I put the girl behind me and backed up a step or two.

"Gentlemen," I said. "Don't you want to grow up and see how this all plays out, this war for our independence?"

"We care nothing for that," said the bigger and calmer one.

"It's all buggery," said bleeding Jimmy. "Come here Cecile."

"No," said the girl behind me. "Go on home. I'll talk to you tomorrow, and I don't want to see Garrison again, not ever."

I backed up another step or two, putting my hand behind me and pushing on the girl's soft belly, backing us up and keeping her sheltered. We were now at least ten paces apart. I had a small pistol in the back of my belt, but from ten paces I suspect I would have thrown it at them rather than shooting. Smoothbore pistols were very inaccurate which is why I usually loaded buckshot, but my pistol was empty just then.

"Cecile, you stupid bitch," the young man called Garrison yelled. "I didn't hurt you."

"You insulted me," she said loudly, peeking out from my left. "You're a crude bore."

"Ha, am I really," he said, looking at the other young man, "Jim said I could have you once he had popped you open. How do you like that?"

"Jimmy!" she squealed loudly.

"I was joking," he said, "now come here, right now."

"Let us pass," I said as calmly as I could. "She asked me to see her home."

"Cow, Slut, Bitch," yelled Garrison. "You're only fit for a mechanic." He raised his pistol and fired; his hand jerked up at the pan flash, and the ball whizzed past very high. "Shoot him," he yelled at his friend.

"Stay here," I said to the girl, pressing her flank. "I'll try not to hurt him."

I drew my bayonet, watched the girl's fiancé look down at his weapon and took a step toward him, blade extended. I smiled as the other young man made to reload his gun, spilling powder on the ground in his haste. I took another step and we were eight paces apart.

Jimmy raised his weapon, put his other hand on his wrist to steady himself and pointed the pistol right at me. I watched his knuckles whiten, took two steps to my right and when I was pretty sure he was going to fire, dove to the street, rolled over and came up lunging and running as the gun went off.

I disemboweled Garrison, pulled loose and faced the girl's would-be husband, my hand on his waistcoat, the point of my big, bloody knife at his chin. "Don't," he cried, dropping to his knees, and wetting himself, "please don't." He dropped his gun to the cobblestones as his urine ran out on the street.

"Oh god," said the girl, running forward. I stood and held her to me so she couldn't see the intestines rolling in the gutter. "Did you really say that?" she demanded. "Say he could, could swive me?"

He nodded, groveling. "I'm sorry, dear. I'm sorry," he whined. "He's my best friend. We were drinking."

"Oh Jimmy," she said, crying, "how could you? How could you? Take me home." She grabbed my arm, and we left them there and hurried down the street, not looking back.

I patted her rump and put my arm about her slim shoulders, hardened by the fight and trying not to think lustfully about her. Then we heard running boots behind us. I pushed her into a doorway and drew my big knife. Around the corner came the young man who had just lost his friend and his sweetheart. He was angry, furious, embarrassed, not thinking very straight, and I almost regretted having to kill him. He fired, still running at me and the ball whipped at the side of my breeches, tearing the cloth near my knee, just above my boot top. He staggered to a stop right in front of me, and I gutted him. He looked surprised, I pulled the blade out and he fell on his face, gurgling.

I was tempted to take his purse, but resisted, grabbed Cecile and hurried her away while she sobbed and bleated.

She lived in a narrow house with brick steps. A black servant answered the knock, and the girl then ran up the stairs, coughing and crying. A white-haired man appeared from a side room. I explained as best I could, and he invited me to come and sit with him. He poured me some wine and told me he was the girl's guardian. I told him I had just killed her fiancé and his groomsman. Then I had to explain. While I was doing that, the girl reappeared, curtseyed to her uncle and sat on the couch beside me. He gave her some wine and she sipped, eyes down.

"Now what, Cecile?" the older man asked.

"I'll be an old maid," she said coldly. "A spinster."

"She is almost sixteen," the man told me.

"And a maiden," she said loudly. "All my friends are wed, some have babies, or they soon will be wed. They are promised. I have nothing, no one."

"He was a fop," said her guardian, "his family are merchants, traders, smugglers. He was not an honest man I fear. And she has legions of suitors, despite her pleas."

She shuddered.

"I am going to bed now that you are home," he said. "Have some more port. It will help you sleep."

She nodded and I stood and he shook my hand and winked at me. "Help her if you can."

"Of course, sir," I said, smiling. "With pleasure."

He slid the door closed and the girl and I looked at each other. "You have changed my life," she said. "Perhaps you saved me from a bad mistake."

"Perhaps," I said, taking her hand.