He was looking fairly at her, and he blushed. The odd sensation that she'd felt before caught her strongly and extremely bold -she put her arms around him. She did not believe they'd come to try and save her, run from London and their duty, that could not be true, but for now it mattered not at all. There was a warm and giving feeling in her, and when their faces met, not all the tenderness was forced on them by her bruises. Their faces met, and their mouths were joined, and moved and rested on each other as though their souls were flowing through. For both of them, it was amazing sweet.
Will knew little of these things, and Deb but little more, but they both began to undress him, half clumsily but with a pleasure that was intensely keen. He fell across the bed to drag one boot off, while Deborah, on her knees, dealt with the other, which was not so tight. She then leaned on to him, between his legs, and helped him to unfasten at the waist, which made him squirm, and gasp, and grit his teeth for fear that he would spend. Deb, as deftly as she'd done it in the past to little brothers, eased his breeches down his legs and off him in a movement, then in another, seeing what was happening to him, untied the ribbons at her neck to let her nightgown rumple to the floor.
"Sir," she said, 'look now. And it is free!"
Perhaps it was the humour, perhaps his crisis passed, but Will opened his eyes, rolled on to his side, and got his passion under rein. Perhaps it was her saying 'sir' which saved it for him. He stared at her great beauty, her bruised and abraded body, the red and livid patches on the milky white, and he was swept by awe and gratitude. He reached his hand out, she hers, and they touched at fingertips.
"Don't call me that," he said. "Deb, my name is Will. You cannot call me sir."
Then she moved on to the bed beside him, by his plucking at her fingers, and they rolled together among the softness of the downy coverings, and he slipped into her and they held each other hard but gently until he ceased to throb. For a moment it was wonderful for Deb, a comfort and sensation she had never known the like of, then she thought of what was happening in her life, and she thought that she might get with child and what would happen then, and she, briefly, thought of home. Then she looked down Will's slight body, the curving of his back, and smelled the sweet smell of his neck and musty hair and it began another, double ache, of gladness and regret. The young man, she noted with an affection almost motherly, was asleep.
But Will was not, just drowning in sensations and confusions of his own. Mainly was the continued sense of awe, the happiness of being with this maid like this, the sense of lightness that was spiritual and physical as well, the sense of unexpected purity. Will knew whores, they'd been a presence in ships and streets and taverns in his life, and he'd known what sailors did with them. Whatever it was meant to feel or be like, in his imaginings, it was not like this, there was not a remote conjunction. Opening his eyes, he was overwhelmed anew by the tenderness she aroused in him, the love with which he beheld her face. Her eyes, to him, were grave and clear and honest, her face a model of perfection, her body beautiful in a most astonishing way, as if it spoke to him, existing for him only. And then she kissed him on the mouth, and very soon they were making love more slowly, but with very little movement, as though their bodies breathed together, they were one. When he spent this time, Will made a low crying sound, as if he were distressed, and Deb's eyes, afterwards, were filled with tears.
When they talked, she told him all the truth about what had happened at the magistrate's, including how she had watched Dennett killed and how she'd revelled in the fact. He had come to help the master rape her, that was her certainty, he had brought a rope to tie her up if necessary, and a cloth to gag her with, and he would provide the strength to hold her down. Then, afterwards -had Milady not come in to kill her first he would have torn her gums bare as per contract, then let her meet her fate. Will could believe Wimbarton would rather have had her as a replacement than have stuck with his blighted wife (although he found it hard to bear the thought, and hugged her tighter underneath the sheets), and told her she was mad to harbour guilt about the mountebank and his fate, which he deserved most richly. He soothed her fears as best he could about Wimbarton finding her. What was the point, now his quack-surgeon was dead; who else would try the operation? And in any way, would Mistress Wimbarton let her near the house again? Never in this world.
He would prevent it, was what he wanted to say, he would look after her. But cold fingers of reality kept worming through his guts, and he was an honest man, and intended that he always would be. Sir A, he said, knew all her troubles, and would treat her like a seeker after sanctuary, one of his household. Deb's own fingers of misery moved within her then, and she cried out silently, "But I'm a whore, I am just a whore, and no one will protect me because I am not worth it." This time the tears did spill from her eyes.
I will never leave you, thought Will, I will protect you always; but he said: "Sir Arthur is a good man, Deb, why are you weeping? He will keep you from all harm, I'm sure of it."
"But I han't even told him all the truth," sobbed Deb. "I said the roof fell in, which is true, but I han't said that a musket brought it down, or that Milady was going to kill me or that Dennett's shot to death, or that the master aimed to fuck me. Oh sir, oh Will, I would have let him, and become his doxy too if it would ha' saved my teeth! Oh sir, I am a liar, I'm a liar!"
This stabbed him with a vicious pain, although he knew she must have done, she would have done, she had no choice, but there was a small mad fear that she might, somehow, not have minded. This horrified him also, the fact he'd harboured such a venal thought, so he forced himself to say it did not matter, why should it matter that she'd not disclosed the details? It was not a question for an answer, but Deb treated it as such.
"Because it is a piece," she said, voice low and not quite steady. "I've stole from him, and now I've lied to him, and all the time I'm just a little slut that run away from home and family and has become a whore. Oh sir. Do you think I could tell him in the morning? Do you think that you might be in the room, or tell him I have got to say something? Or something of the sort, sir? Please?"
But I won't be there, he thought. Then: she must stop saying 'sir', she is my lover. Oh Christ, is there no end to pain?
"But Deb, it is impossible. I am not your ... it is not my place to say such things to Sir Arthur Fisher. You tell him, do; he will not mind. Or tell Mrs. Houghton, it is an understanding woman. In any way, by this morning I will be gone. Sam Holt and me. We have a duty to perform. And please; don't call me sir."
Deb had rolled away, was propped up on one elbow, her clear brown eyes regarding him. Will felt he could detect contempt, indeed he was ashamed. But maybe he was wrong, for Deb smiled at him, and reached her free hand out to touch his cheek.
"Duty," she said. "You men and duty. I sometimes wish that I'd been born a man. Oh well, as you say, he is a good man, and I suppose the details are no great moment to him. A rat shot down is still just one rat less, however much I found it shocking. Dennett deserved it, that is one thing. And I've seen worse at home!"
He was tired. There was no denying it, an ache was growing behind his eyes. Her breasts were soft and wonderful, and he touched one, but she merely smiled more broad, and covered them. She leaned across and kissed his cheek and patted him as if she were older than he was, and much wiser, then slipped out of the bed despite he tried to stop her when he realised. Leaning across, all glorious dark hair and injured beauty, naked, she was more like a dream than real, and he let his hand drop down on to the coverings.