The Ravishing of Constance Ch. 11

"Now, now, Lady Beatrice," Michel said, as the men slapped their thighs and guffawed. "We were kind enough to take you with us when your ship was about to burn to the waterline. Is this the thanks we get?"

"The only thanks you'll get, knave, is a noose 'round your neck."

"And what of you, pretty lass?" Michel asked the other one. "Have you a name?"

"Marie," she said. And she was pretty, with a pert nose and pertly pointed chin, wide-set grey-green eyes, and a dusting of freckles. "I'm Lady Beatrice's maid."

"Tell me, Marie," Michel said in a tone that suggested conspiracy. "Is your mistress a virgin?"

Beatrice shrieked in outrage.

"She …" Marie began.

"Of course I am, what manner of trollop do you take me for?" Beatrice cut in hotly. "The very idea!"

"Tell me the truth, Marie, and you'll be the better for it," Michel said. "I promise you good treatment if you're honest with us."

"I –"

"Don't you speak to this rogue," Beatrice said. "I forbid it."

"So she's a virgin?" Michel asked.

"I told you that I was!"

"Marie?"

The girl's chin quivered. She looked from Michel, who was holding his cutlass, to her mistress, whose eyes flashed furious sparks.

"No, she isn't." She said it in a rush, as if the words burst from her against her will.

Beatrice shrieked again. "Why, you lying slut!" Her hand darted out and fetched Marie a hard cuff on the ear that sent her reeling to her knees.

At Michel's nod, his men rushed in and held the two women apart. Michel himself solicitously offered Marie his hand. Beatrice hissed and spat and scratched like a wildcat at the men who restrained her, clawing at the air as if she intended to have the very eyes from Marie's head.

"She isn't, then?" he inquired. "Do tell."

Marie cowered before the wrathful glare of her mistress. "She … she …"

"There is nothing to tell," Beatrice said vehemently. "Because I am a virgin."

"No one else knows," Marie said. "But she … the stableboy …"

"What?" screeched Beatrice.

"The stableboy, go on," Michel encouraged.

Her head hanging as if ashamed to look anyone in the face, Marie said, "He's a halfwit, and mute, but he's … enormous. She likes to have me … make her ready, and then have him do her roughly from behind."

Beatrice swayed and went chalk-white.

"No one else knows," Marie repeated, raising her eyes imploringly to Michel. They were brimming with tears. "She made me swear I'd never tell, no one, not ever."

The pirates were swapping knowing, randy glances. "Make her ready how?" one of them, Constance's dear admirer Adam, asked.

"With … with my mouth," Marie said, turning scarlet. "While Gerald – that's the stableboy – watches and … and, well, rubs himself."

"That is all entirely a lie, a ghastly vicious lie," Beatrice whispered.

"He may not be able to speak, or think, but he knows what to do then," Marie went on. "The first time, it took him a bit to catch on but once he was … you know … in her, and started pushing, he figured it out."

"Lady Beatrice, my, my, my," Michel said. "Who would have known to look at you, so well-dressed and elegant."

"You cannot possibly believe her!"

"Do you know what this means to us?" he asked. "This means that when we ransom you back to your family, the first thing they'll do is have a doctor or midwife examine you to be sure you're intact. And when they find that you aren't, they'll hold us responsible. No matter what we, or you, tell them. We'll have the blame of it but not the fun, and that is hardly fair."

"What are you saying?" She had gone nearly transparent in her paleness.

"That we may as well have the fun. I may not be as … how did you say, enormous? … as your Gerald, but among all of us we should be able to give you the rough swiving you need."

She began to shout and struggle in earnest, but the men holding her were more than a match. Michel turned to Marie, cupped her pert chin in his hand, and looked into her eyes.

"I know that was not an easy thing for you to do, cherie," he said. "But it was right for you to tell us the truth. Would you be willing to make this less of a trial for your mistress?"

"How?" she asked tremulously.

"Nothing you've not done before," he assured her.

Understanding dawned. "Oh … you want me to …"

"If you will oblige."

"I will."

Constance could not tear herself away. She watched as Beatrice was borne down on her back, several pirates pinning her arms and legs while others bunched her skirt around her waist and stripped off her undergarments. Still, she tried to kick and fight, and when one man attempted to cover her mouth, she bit the side of his hand and drew blood.

Marie removed her bonnet and fluffed out her curly chestnut hair. She knelt beside Beatrice and patted her soothingly.

"Get away from me, don't you dare touch me!"

The men opened Beatrice's legs and held her spread-eagled. The bush of her pubic hair was shockingly dark against her white skin. Marie bent down, stroked her furry mound as if it were a kitten. Beatrice's body jerked and contorted.

"It's all right, mistress. It's only your Marie, doing what you so like for her to do." With that, Marie lowered her head between Beatrice's thighs.

Continued in Chapter Twelve