Corsair Pt. 01 Ch. 08: At the Hotel

It was evening when the little car chugged into Campbeltown, and pulled up in front of the Royal Hotel. Fiona was tired; it had been a wonderful day, a memorable day - but a long and taxing day. She let Andrew hand her down, and, remembering to be on her most correct behaviour, accompanied him at the correct distance into the hotel. She was known here; her reputation mattered here. She made appropriate small talk as Andrew registered, but was relieved when a maid came to show her to her room. It was on the second floor, and not large, but comfortably furnished. The maid showed her where the bathroom was, at the end of the hall, warned her that the water could be quite hot, and left her.

Alone, Fiona cast off her clothes, and examined herself. The mirror showed no scratches or bruises on her face, although there was considerable road dirt. She ran warm water into the basin in her room, and, taking her a wash-cloth from her bag, washed first her face, and then, sadly, her groin. She unbraided her hair and brushed it out carefully. She had brought one light petticoat and one blue tea gown, high of collar and long of sleeve, plain save for a white lace collar. It was old, but it was extremely respectable, which she wanted for this evening; but at the same time light and comfortable to wear.

She'd also brought stockings, suspenders, french knickers and even a light corset. She looked at these things now with amused revulsion. Why on earth had she brought them? Well, because they were expected, of course. But she flushed at the thought that Andrew should even know she'd brought them. Then she smiled at her own contradictory thoughts, and started, still naked, to braid up her hair.

And stopped herself, and realised she'd never done this before.

Somehow, today, it seemed natural to be naked. She had better control herself, lest she go back downstairs unclad! Smiling happily, she finished the braid, coiled it into a bun, netted and pinned it; and only then slipped into the petticoat and then the dress. She glanced at her wrist watch; it was five minutes past seven, so she was only a trifle late.

Downstairs she found Andrew still dressed in the same clothes - he had, she realised, since the fire, no others, but in Argyle tweeds and brogues are always respectable enough - talking with a black-besuited minister. Suppressing a shudder, she walked across to them.

"Ah, Miss Campbell," said Andrew, smoothly, "how good of you to join me. Are you aquainted with the Reverend MacPherson?"

"I have that honour," she said, bowing slightly to the minister. "Do you dine here?"

"Indeed I do," said the minister. "Should you care to join me?"

A knot of panic tightened in Fiona's stomach. Andrew, please...

"Miss Campbell and I are travelling together," said Andrew, still smooth, "since she had business to transact here in the town, and I should have been driving down in any case. But we should be most grateful if you should join us?"

The panic eased only slightly. Of course, the man accepted.

-----

They were seated. A waitress took their orders, and shortly served cullen skink -- a fish soup traditional in Scotland -- which they had each ordered as their entrée.

"Gracious God, we have sinned against Thee, and are unworthy of Thy mercy," intoned the minister. "Pardon our sins, and bless these mercies for our use, and help us to eat and drink to Thy glory, for Christ's sake. Amen."

Fiona and Andrew waited until he had finished, and muttered "amen" politely, before taking up their spoons.

"You'll be some sort of cousin of Hugh O'Doherty of Crossconnel, will you not, Miss Fiona?"

Fiona glanced at the minister warily, and dabbed at her mouth with her napkin.

"You must know that I am. And not of 'some sort', but first cousins; his mother and mine are sisters."

"But they do not share a father."

"I see you are well informed. No, indeed, my grandmother Carrol's first husband died in the fighting in the Gold Coast, in 1874."

"And your mother was born a papist."

"She was born into the church of her parents," said Fiona, "as I imagine you were. We do not choose the faith into which we are born. In any case, she converted to the protestant faith when she married my father."

"The Lord God, who knows our hearts and sins and fates from the hour of our birth, who knows well His chosen, chooses the faiths we are born into," said the minister, with menace rumbling in his tone. "He does not assign His chosen to the church of the antichrist. The walls of Babylon are fallen, cast down by His almighty power as the Emperor of the Germans has so recently been, but its whores live on."

"Forgive me, Reverend McPherson," said Andrew, "this hardly seems a conversation for a gently reared maiden."

The minister cast him a sharp glance. "Is that what you imagine her, aye?"

"Sir," said Andrew, firmly, "this is the lady who will, I hope, shortly become my wife."

The minister's eye looked skeptical. "Is she, indeed?"

But he said no more for the present, and ate his soup. Fiona looked at Andrew, gratefully.

The waitress returned, and removed their bowls; and shortly after, served their main courses.

"You're a naval man, Commander Smith?" asked the minister.

"I have that honour," said Andrew.

"And as an officer of the King's navy, what's your opinion of men who take arms to the Irish rebels, in private yachts?"

"If it happens, I deplore it. We have had enough of killing; it is time, I believe, for us all to beat our swords into ploughshares. But have you evidence that it does happen?"

"I shall have," the minister replied. "Many of the fishermen who sail these waters are good, loyal communicants of my church, who know their duty to God and to the King. Bad things might happen to yachts which happened to have arms aboard them, if their owners were not well trusted folk."

"I would hope that any private vessel smuggling arms into Ireland would be reported, and stopped, in these uncertain times."

"The loyal protestant people of Ulster will never surrender their arms!"

"After these last four years," said Andrew, coolly, "surely we have had enough of killing. The future of Ireland must be in the hands of the people of Ireland. The general election is overdue; it must surely be called within the year. And then His Majesty's Government must surely, in honour, honour the result."

"Never!" declaimed the minister. "Never! Almighty God will not allow Ireland to fall to the papist heretics."

"If almighty God will not allow it," said Andrew, even more coolly, "then we can be certain that it won't happen. Do you lack faith in His power, Reverend MacPherson, or in His judgement?"

The rest of the meal was eaten in silence.

-----

The door opened quietly, and Fiona, in her nightgown, slipped in, a candle in her hand. Andrew seized her, and crushed her against him, closing the door silently and twisting the key in the lock. He was still fully dressed.

"That was pretty horrible, wasn't it?" he whispered.

Her face crushed into her shoulder, she nodded.

"I'm so glad you came," he said, still in an undervoice.

"Did you think for a moment that I might not?"

"I feared you might not have found my note."

"Silly," she smiled into his shirt. "I'd already got the maid to tell me which your room was. She was Irish, Catholic. She'll not tell."

"We're close to Ireland, here. I almost feel the shadow of the trouble."

"Indeed. I did not at all like what that crow was asking about Hugh. Corsair..."

"Softly, my captive. That crow lies beyond the wall."

She sagged for a moment in his arms. "Oh, bother," she whispered. "Shall I go?"

"Whose possession are you, Miss Campbell?" Andrew asked, pulling up her nightdress.

"Yours, oh ravisher of my virtue and despoiler of my loins" she replied, reaching up her hands to let him strip it over her head.

"And who will possess those loins this night?"

"You, I hope. Will you come to my chamber?"

"Here will do well, but softly. Bite the pillow when you need."

"The bed will creak!"

"True," he said, tossing a pillow onto the carpet, "but the floor will probably not."

It was strange, and dreamy. He laid her down, face up, on the carpet, undressed quickly, and knelt, naked in the candlelight, between her legs. To her astonishment, he bent and licked her slit with his tongue, opening the vulvae with it, finding her bud and suckling on it. The sensation was astonishing - so much more intense than fingers, even his fingers. Without intending it her hands knotted in his hair, and the image of him with his hands in her hair that afternoon struck a sudden burst of laughter in her which she struggled to contain.

But the sensation was too much for laughter. Under the soft lash of his tongue, she twisted her head from side to side, seeing in her mind's eye the red-headed girl, and suddenly it was not laughter that she was struggling with but...

Shuddering, she clamped her thighs around his head, her hands still pressing him hard against her, and bit firmly into the pillow.

Later, kneeling, her shoulders once more on the floor, she felt him thrusting into her from behind, with the same vigour, the same force, the same depth as before, but with controlled slowness, in and out, in and out, in and out, like the ticking of a grandfather clock. She felt utterly at peace, passive, taken, to be taken, a vessel for his need or for his seed, half asleep or almost half asleep, and still deeply, intensely, utterly, giving herself to the service, to the pleasure, to the lust of this man around whom her life now suddenly turned.

In and out, in and out, in and out, his hands unbraiding her hair as he took her, unbraiding it into a great cape which covered her back in silk. And then, when it was all unbraided, his hands on her hips again, taking, holding, driving, compelling, owning.

In and out, in and out, in and out, as though she were a component of that great clock ticking down the age of the universe. So smooth, so deep, so gentle, so controlled, so powerful. In and out, in and out - had she slept? Surely - in and out... And her own body suddenly, unexpectedly, spasmed in another climax, her teeth clamping down on her forearm for want of the pillow.

He laughed, silently. She felt his laughter through his pelvis pressed against hers, through his organ within her. And then he pulled out.

She lay still for a moment, bewildered and bereft, but then, silently, he turned her over, and taking both her ankles in one hand, swept them up over his right shoulder. He pinned her down with his right hand on her collar bone, and with his left, guided his member back to her slick entrance.

So taken, only her head and shoulders were on the pillow. She was bent almost double under him, taking most of his weight. She was vaguely aware that it wasn't at all comfortable. But she hadn't much time to think about it, because his hand moved to grip her throat, and his strokes, which had been so gentle, so controlled, became explosive and violent. One. Two. Three. Four. She couldn't breathe. Five. Six. Seven. She couldn't breathe! Eight. Nine. Spots were swimming in her vision. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. The blood was roaring in her ears. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. She was going to die! Hard! Sharp! Silent! Ninteen...

He shuddered, spastically, his limbs losing control, as heat flooded her. Slowly, silently, he collapsed to her right, his softening organ slipping out of her with a distinct plop. He pulled her hard against him, cluthing her desperately. Warmth spilled out of her, and ran, cooling, down the curve of her thigh.

"Thank you," he whispered, softly, desperately. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

Awkwardly, she reached a hand back to hold him.

"I am yours," she replied.

She was asleep by the time he lifted her, gently, into his bed.

-----

She woke with a hand over her mouth.

"It's almost seven," Andrew whispered in her ear. "The maids will be bringing morning tea shortly. You must go."

The hand removed, Fiona lifted her face to be kissed. She stood up and stretched mightily, feeling her loose hair cascading down her back. She drew back the curtain and let the dawn light wash over her body, as she gazed down at the fishing boats below. Suddenly shocked at herself, she withdrew into the room, and knelt by the bed. Andrew, naked, was sitting there. She bent, swifly, and took his half-hard shaft into her mouth, feeling the satisfaction of its instant, urgent response.

"Yes, Fiona, I know," Andrew whispered. "But you must go."

"I don't want to!"

"Marry me."

She knelt back on her heels, looking him straight in the eyes.

"I want to."

"Then why not?"

"Later," she whispered. "There's no time now. I must go."

She got up, and turned to the door, and unlocked it.

"Fiona!" Andrew whispered.

"What?" she turned to him.

"Your nightgown," he said, holding it out to her.

She stared at him, big-eyed, hand to her mouth, for a frozen moment, took it from his hand, slipped it over her head, kissed him quickly, and fled.

-----

A rapping came at the door. "Morning tea!"

"Come!" called Fiona, sitting up in bed.

The door opened, and there, in the trim black and white of a hotel maid, carrying a steaming cup in her hand, was the red-haired girl.

They looked at one another in wide-eyed shock. Again, for the second time that morning, Fiona raised her hand to her mouth. The red-haired girl carefully put the suddenly-rattling cup on the bedside cabinet. Fiona, looking at her intently, turned the hand at her mouth to the one finger signal for silence. The red-haired girl raised her own hand into the same signal. Fiona nodded, and held out her hand in sudden comradeship. The red-haired girl looked at it for a moment, puzzled; and then, understanding, took it.

"Thank you," said Fiona, very softly. "It was an honour to watch you, yesterday. You were beautiful."

"Thank you, miss," whispered the girl. "It was yourself that was beautiful. I... I was not at first entirely sure it was what you wanted."

"Oh, I wanted it. I wanted it! And you? Was it your first time?"

"Not quite," the girl replied. "But the once. He did not wish to die without... so I let him, the once, before he left. He is only just back. It was not yours?"

"Not quite, but... this is my first week. My fourth day!"

"He will marry you?"

"He wants to," said Fiona. "I want to say yes. But I am not yet quite certain that I will. Will you marry yours?"

"Oh yes, miss. Oh yes."

Fiona smiled. "I envy you your confidence!" she said.

"So few of them are come back," said the girl. "He did. He would not have come back if there were not... if it were not..."

"Meant?"

"Yes miss." The girl nodded. "I must go."

"One thing?"

"Yes miss?"

"You know who I am?" The girl nodded. "If you ever need a reference, or help, ask me."

"Thank you, miss."

-----

At breakfast, the red-haired girl waited on their table. Andrew did not appear to notice her. The minister, fortunately, had breakfasted earlier, and had gone. But breakfast, too, was not without interruption. They had barely done with their porridge than the red-haired girl was back, looking serious.

"Miss Campbell," she said, "There is Constable Patrick Campbell here who wishes a word with you, if it might be had."

"Constable?" asked Fiona, getting up. "Of the police."

"Yes miss."

"Shall I come with you?" asked Andrew, also getting up.

"Andrew - my dear - let me see to this."

Andrew watched her go out of the room anxiously. After a moment, the red haired girl returned, and refilled his coffee cup.

"I'll wait your kippers until Miss Campbell is returned, sir?"

Andrew looked up, startled.

"Thank you, yes."

"You should marry her, sir," the girl said, and left.

More startled, Andrew looked towards the door. It opened, and Fiona came in.

"There is bad news," she said, sitting down, and reaching a hand across the table to Andrew. "My mother has had some sort of... I don't know, exactly. She has collapsed, but is not dead. But..."

"You must return, at once."

"Yes."

"We would have gone back today, in any case."

"We would have gone north today," said Fiona. "I am not certain whether I intended to go back, at all."

"You mean?"

"I am not certain what I mean. My world has... been turned on its head. Too much has happened, too fast. Yes, I might have come with you, and lived with you. If you had wanted it. That still might happen. But... first I must go back."

"Of course."

The red haired girl came in, laid down two plates of kippers, and silently went out.

"Fiona, will you marry me?"

She smiled. "You've asked. And I am thinking about it. Very seriously. For six months I've been thinking about it. I will give you an answer. But... not today."