H. M. S. Cockerel by Dewey Lambdin Read Free Book Online Page A

shoulder, her arms encircled him as he extended his right arm to nestle her warmly close. The light, citrony aroma of freshly dabbed Hungary Water enveloped him. Caroline slid one hand up his chest to his neck, to the back of his head. With sinewy strength, she turned his face to hers and their lips met in the dark as she grappled him nearer, as she slid upward, as she cast a slim thigh across his lap. Seductively, yet fiercely, her kisses searing and intense as sobs.
    â€œI could not let you go away,” she whispered in a raspy breathlessness, “with last night your remembrance of me. God knows how long you’ll be gone, or how soon . . . how little time we . . . !”
    All said between long, searching, open-mouthed kisses, breath hot and cow-clover musky, her soft, smooth flesh flushed and warming as Alan slid her silk nightgown to her waist to fondle, to possess that peachlike bottom, that butterfly softness of her inner thighs, that fount of all pleasures . . .
    With almost frantic impatience, Caroline sat up on her knees and one arm and shucked her nightgown, tossing it to the four winds. Reached down as though to rip his bedclothes nigh enough away, to lean down over him, take his hands and guide them to her breasts as she pressed her mouth to his once more, her tongue almost scalding.
    â€œAll night, I swear it!” She almost wept. “All the time they give us!”
    â€œGod, I love you, Caroline!” he muttered as he took hold of the upswelling of her hips to guide her down to meet him. “I love you!”
    â€œOh, Alan, dearest . . . I love you!” she vowed. “Love me now, I beg you! My remembrance! Ahhh, yess!”
    S’pose they’ll not see me that early, he most happily thought; God, I can get a whole day’s sleep in the Waiting Room, more’n like!
    Even at half past six of the morning, London’s streets were thronged with mongers and their wares fresh from the market, wagons and drays, livestock, weary prostitutes and pickpockets, revelers on their way home to bed, shopkeepers and clerks on their way to work. The bulkhead shops were already open, as were the greengrocers and butchers. Coal-heavers were out, house servants or valets to fetch their masters’ or mistresses’ breakfasts from ordinaries or taverns. It was quicker for Lieutenant Lewrie to saunter down Catherine Street, cross the busy Strand, with a trained ear attuned to the rude cries of “Have care!” or “By y’r leave, sir!” of coachees, careening wagoners, or sedan-chair bully bucks. To stand still, dumb as a fart in a trance, even on the footpaths, was an invitation to getting trampled. And take a boat to the Admiralty.
    At the foot of the bank where Charing Cross ended there were stairs to the riverside—slimy, mucked and erose, and worn down by long usage. As soon as he was spotted, the cacophonous din set in, reminding Lewrie of a hunting pack who’d cornered the fox.
    â€œOars, oars!” cried the boatmen. “Scullers, scullers, sir! Tuppence!” countered those with smaller dinghys featuring a stern-sweep as propulsion.
    â€œOars,” he answered back, scanning the flotilla and selecting a bullock of a fellow, who sported the crossbelt, brassard and coat-of-arms of the Lord Mayor.
    â€œWhitehall Steps . . . sixpence, sir,” the fellow nodded as he boarded the small craft. “Tide’n wind be fair ’is mornin’, sir.”
    â€œHard not to tell,” Lewrie commented as he settled himself on a forward thwart, his coin out and ready.
    â€œAye aye, sir,” the man crinkled a sun-wrinkled smile as he shoved off and shipped his oars in the tholepins. “Young man wearin’ King’s Coat . . . canvas packet unner ’is arm . . . well, sir!”
    â€œYou were in the Navy?” Lewrie asked.
    â€œBoth th’ las’ wars, sir. Landsman . . . ord’nary’n able seaman . . . ’en