Blackburn Wendell - The Amorous Adventures of Belinda

He saw his tormentor pull a long, wide strip of bunting off the back of the stand and gazed up in horror as he realized what was going to happen. Sir David was going to cover him and leave him to die of his wounds. Die he certainly would, but it might take hours before the last drop of blood drained from his ravaged body; hours in which he must lay there, conscious of the pain of his shattered bones, his ripped and mangled flesh. Covered with the bunting, no one would find him here behind the stands until late into the night or even next morning.

As Sir David leaned from his horse to pull the bunting over the shattered lump of gore, Big Red forced out a word.

“Cuckold.”

Sir David's hand stopped in mid-air, his eyes blazing as he sought to regain his control. Again Big Red forced words from his pain-gagged throat, and blood trickled out of his mouth faster than the sounds as he spoke.

“Cuckold.” He sneered, his face twisting horribly. “Cuckold by an ape.”

Sir David snapped, his sanity going with an almost audible crack. He dropped the bunting and jerked Pan up, dropping her down with both front feet landing squarely on that ugly, grinning face. Again and again he brought the horse down, until the thick mist cleared from his eyes enough to see that there was nothing left of the beggar's head but a slimy lump of blood and bone and pinkish-grey brain, and a few clumps of stringy, ginger hair.

Sir David sat quietly for a moment, allowing his brain to clear. The whole incident had taken no more than a few moments, but it seemed that he had been behind these stands for hours.

He scooped up the bunting and threw it over the gruesome mess. He knew what the swine had done. He knew now that he had let himself be taunted into ending the agony the filthy rakehell had so dearly earned. He cursed the corpse, but it no longer mattered much. The thing was done. For the first time in four and a half years he was at peace. He had avenged his own honour; avenged his wife.

He dropped from the saddle and cleaned the gelding's hooves with moist, new grass. He remounted and turned to join his wife, not bothering even a last glance at the grisly mound he left behind him.

The day had been a great success. Sir David's Pan had won the dancing contest easily, and his black had finished second in the race. He held a celebration dinner in a tent he had erected at the edge of the green, and the food and drink had been lavish and varied. Robert noticed that his friend and employer seemed more at ease than in many years. He was like he had been before Robert went up to court, and many people remarked that Sir David and his wife were behaving like young lovers. Robert knew that Sir David had worked long and hard over Pan's training, and he attributed the man's light-hearted mood to the animal's flawless performance. He was quite right, of course, but not exactly in the way he thought.

Robert was still with Sir Cassen's party when John and Belinda left. They pushed their way through the crowd, Captain Fothering's size coming much to their aid. They climbed the steps to the dance floor and stood watching for a moment. An excellent orchestra had been provided-lutinests, fiddlers, and even a virginal. Bonfires glowed brightly all over the green where the peasants and commoners were holding their revels and the dancing pavilion itself was strung with many lanterns. These lanterns and shutters of tinted mica and the effect was soft and romantic.

As the orchestra led off the next dance, John took Belinda into his arms and they moved out onto the floor. John had done a certain amount of dancing in his youth, and since, but he was a good deal more comfortable on the deck of a ship than he was on a dance floor. Anyway, it was lonely. Belinda was so much shorter than when they were in the embrace of the dance he was forced to peer over her head. It was most disconcerting.

He had made some arrangements earlier that occupied his mind far more than the dancing.

The music stopped and, still circling her waist with his arm, John guided Belinda to the steps that led down from the platform. Snuggling within his arm, she looked up at him inquisitively.

“Where are we going?”

“Into my boudoir,” he grinned. “It isn't exactly lavish, but it is private.” His hand fell lower on her hip, the long fingers stroking her firm belly. Thank God it was warm. He had no intention of making love through five yards of ruffled silk and three petticoats. He wanted this beautiful little body free; wanted to feel the full length of her naked and wriggling beneath him.

“Quick. Under the platform. I'll join you in a moment.”

He held up the bunting, and Belinda asked no further questions. She bent quickly and slipped under. There was enough room to stand, and enough light came in under the bunting skirt for her to make out a sort of couch. She walked over to it and found that it was a thick mound of stuff bunting and soft silk, laid out in the form of a bed, nearly eight feet long and almost as wide. A basket beside this impromptu mattress contained two bottles of fine wine and a cooked chicken. Belinda lay down, smiling in anticipation. He must have sneaked these things in during the afternoon, but it could have been no easy task. How he had managed to do it without being detected was beyond her. What a change this man was from the limp clots she met at Whitehall. When it came to the more practical side of an affair, their ingenuity stopped before it began. Unless it were simply a case of sneaking into an empty bedroom and locking the door, she had to make all the arrangements herself.

She lay waiting for John to appear, wondering what was keeping him. It was a bit eerie, laying there in the flickering half-light, listening to the dancing feet overhead and watching the silhouette of the passing crowd reflected against the bunting.

As she thought of the Captains long, hard body, his strong hands and huge, heavy rod, she felt the moisture of desire begin to collect between her thighs. She remembered the feel of that great organ in her mouth and hands, and her breath quickened as she thought of the joys to be had from that source. She wanted it deep in her body, stretching her, hurting her, driving her mad with passion. Damn! Why didn't he hurry.

It is one thing for a tiny woman to slip quickly and unnoticed under a platform five and a half feet from the ground. It is quite another for the same feat to be accomplished by a man a foot taller than that. What Belinda didn't know was that John, himself, had not been under the platform at all. He had hired three urchins to furnish his bridal suite on his instructions, and had only peeked inside to see that all had been properly prepared.

He stood now, trying to figure out the best way to navigate. There were a lot more people around then he had expected, and after a couple of abortive attempts at subtlety, he decided that he must either stand there all night or simply pull up the stuff and crawl under. This he did, but one long leg caught in the bunting and he was catapulted full length onto the ground, cursing and swearing. It was hardly the entrance he had planned.

“God be damned to all the seven hells! My boot's caught in this whoreson cloth.”

Belinda slipped across to where he was lying and quickly unwound his foot, setting him free. She was laughing so hard that she almost fell over herself.

“That's better. God damn it.” John sat up and looked around. His scowl changed to a delighted, boyish grin. “I see the lads did well. Not exactly palatial, but we've got all the comforts.”

He crawled over to the broad couch, Belinda behind him, still giggling. He lay down and pulled her down beside him.

“Laugh, you little baggage. Is it my fault that God cursed me with such lengthy limbs? We'll see how you laugh when you feel the length of something else.”