"Wait," Lewrie said, getting up on one elbow and taking her by the hand. Tess was simply delightful, and, with her heavy robe still hanging open, he could not let her go without drinking in the sight of her. Her hair had long before come undone from its restraining ribbon, and hung long and fair to her waist in soft curves, and in the dim candlelight, her body was a study in amber wash.
"Best choice ever I made," Lewrie told her, " 'cause you're the loveliest girl I've clapped 'top-lights' on in years, Tess."
"Ah, go on with ye," she laughed, rewarding his words with one more shy grin and a cock of her head. "You keep the covers warm while I fetch us some vittles." She stepped out into the narrow passageway and Lewrie settled back with his hands behind his head, about ready to laugh out loud in glee to have stumbled upon such a sweet young thing… even if she was a whore.
He heard her shoes click down the passageway to the outer door, the door open and close, and listened to the sounds of the house, now that things had slowed down a bit. Damnably, there was still a wench in a nearby cubicle who must have aspired to the opera, who trilled and hallooed false passion, still. Cross the hallway, perhaps, muffled but still loud, there was a couple who cursed each other like salty bosuns, between animal-like grunts and whoops. When he and Tess were not busy, they'd giggled like schoolchildren to the sounds, speculating what the other whores and customers really looked like… and what particular act they were engaged in.
Sleepy? No, he didn't feel sleepy in the slightest, yet. There were seven more un-used cundums, and, with a cold collation and a new bottle of "bubbly" coming, he imagined he might attain a new record.
Tess was that intriguing, and enflaming.
And I'm too bloody hungry, he admitted to himself.
"Hallo," Lewrie muttered to himself as the amourous sounds of the house changed. There were shouts belowstairs, a thud or two, then the quick clopping of someone's shoes, the opening and slamming of the hallway door, some closer clopping… which forced him to sit upright in bed.
There was a woman's shriek of alarm, another woman's voice raised in high dudgeon, men bellowing, and…
The door to the cubicle burst open, Tess with her hair flying as she dashed in with a champagne bottle in her hand! She slammed the door and clawed at a pocket of her heavy dressing robe. "Help me, Cap'm!" she cried. "The chest! The bloody chest!"
He sprang from the bed stark naked, padded to the door, and she tossed him the champagne bottle-half-full as promised, sloshing on his bare chest and stomach, as she dug in the other pocket, then sprang to the silk robe, then the night-stand.
"Shift th' damned chest! Block th' fackin' door, please Jesus, for I cannot find th' fackin' key!" she wailed. By then, all the customers and whores on both the second and third storeys were either yelling in fright or bellowing in anger.
"What the bloody Hell?" Lewrie demanded as he knelt to shift the large chest in front of the door.
"Fackin' mad man, oughter be in Bedlam, he should…!" Tess said in a gasping voice, then exulted as she found a rusty key. She tossed it to him, which he dropped, then scrambled for, and locked the flimsy door for her. He turned to face her.
"What bloody mad man?"
Tess was now holding the throat of her wool dressing robe shut with one hand, and in the other, she shakily held a shiny wee dagger.
Belowstairs-uncomfortably closer than before-there came sounds of a struggle, and a bellowed demand. "Tess! Vant Tess, and no other, hear me? Peasants! Serfs! How dare you? Yob tvoyemat!"
"Eeep!" was Lewrie's outburst upon hearing that Russian curse.
What's Durschenko doin' here? was his first panicky thought; I ain't toppin' his daughter, so…!
He picked up the champagne bottle from the floor, took a large swig that bubbled round his mouth and chin, then went to Tess's side.
"B'lieve I know a bit more about daggers than you, sweetlin'," Lewrie said, hand out to request it. " 'Less you've killed somebody in the past with it. Here, I'll trade you," he said, offering the bottle. For an off-hand weapon, he picked the empty champagne bottle from the night-stand.
"Now, who's this bloody lunatick that's callin' for ya," Lewrie asked over his shoulder, taking stance between Tess and the door. "His name ain't Durschenko, is it? Arslan Artimovich? Scrawny old Russian devil with an eyepatch?"
"No… no, he's a student," Tess said with a weak shudder to her voice. She'd climbed onto the bed and was huddling in the far corner near the drapes. "Says he was. Anatoli, he called himself. Russian, aye. Goin' t'Oxford, an' some sorta title… count or somethin'. He was took with me, but Jesus! He's a mean'un! I told Mother Batson I'd druther he come round no more… choose another girl, but…! Ye'll not let him in an' git me, willya, Cap'm Alan, for th' love o' God?"
"Not if I can help it, no, Tess," Lewrie assured her, hefting his dagger and make-shift cosh.
It sounded, though, as if the struggle had reached a high-tide mark on the second-storey landing, safely a floor below. More curses in Russian, from two voices, some good old London accents from several more bully-bucks. "Sasha, pamageetyeh! Doh! Viy mojetyeh mnyeh pamoch?" from one, and "Oww!" and a grunt from another, preceded by some lovely meaty thuds from fists and cudgels. "Vill burn house down! Ow! Kill all you pryazni… oof!"
Of a sudden, it got delightfully quiet. While whores continued to fret and fuss, and gentlemen customers made idle threats, an ironic series of cheers could be heard; the grunts and heavy-footed shuffles as bodies were hauled downstairs, and victorious bully-bucks congratulated themselves on a duty well done.
"Think you're safe, now," Lewrie told Tess, turning around. She was behind the bed, 'tween the mattress and the wall, with the covers thrown over her to appear as a pile of blankets shoved off the bed… one frightened eye peeked from a tiny fold.
"He's gone?"
"Bashed senseless, by the sound of it," Lewrie said with a wry laugh, "him and another, both. Damme, I don't usually do my fightin' in the buff." He put the dagger back into the night-stand drawer, the empty bottle on the floor beside it, and hopped back into bed, pulling up the covers and shivering. "Well, don't I get a reward?" he asked with a laugh. Tess untangled herself from the pile of covers, spread them back out to cover all the mattress, and slid in from the off-side.
"Ye'da fought him for me?" Tess shakily exclaimed as she curled up to him under the covers, her wool robe itchy on his skin. "Ye'da risked yer life t'keep me safe?"
For a second he took that for false hero-worship, the fawning of a courtesan dependent on his purse, yet… she sounded truly amazed to have someone… anyone… stand up for her.
"Still have the 'bubbly'? Let me have a sip, there's a darlin'," Lewrie bade. He took a drink from the neck, then grinned at her. "Whoever the bastard was, you were terrified… and, he was spoilin' our time t'gether, so what else could I do for a pretty young lass? Doubt he'll be comin' here again, so… ''
He would have handed the bottle back to her, but Tess threw her arms round his neck, thrust a thigh between his, and kissed him with a fierce passion. She jerked the knot of her sash loose and spread the dressing robe over him, pressing her fever-warm body to his… she whimpered and cooed and clung to him like a limpet.
And did he feel sudden moisture on his face… her face?
Oh, don't do that, he thought as he hugged her back, slipping his free hand under the covers and her robe to stroke her bare back and shoulders as she writhed against him; A girl's tears'll always land me in trouble.
"There, there, sweetlin'," he murmured into her hair. "It's all over, and no harm done."
"G… git one o' ye're cundums," she breathed, "an' make love t'me, this very minute!"
"Well… if it'll make ye feel better," he japed.
Damned if he wasn't ready to oblige her, in point of fact, for the threat of danger, then her warmth and softness, had made him as inspired as the first time, with an erection as stiff as a marling-spike. She sat up, "armoured" him quickly with trembling hands, then sat astride of him, her robe cocooning them both, and her long, curly hair brushing his chest.