their skin on fire, lips pressing together and teeth digging in a frantic intensity of
need and a heat washing through their bodies, sending them into a paroxysm spiraling of
mutual tearing and whelming, clothes rippling from about their bodies, hands enveloping
her buttocks, her nails digging into skin, hardness driving inside as she uttered that
soft female cry which must be cried
“Insolent bitch!”
The brutish man thrust her to her knees at his feet, raising his belt to her with
molten fury in his eyes. She cried out with the pain as her knees slammed into the
hard-wood floor, face twisted with agony as she cowered penitently under his hand. “How
dare you talk back to me!”
Richard grabbed his wrist before the fateful blow could fall, restraining him
gently, but yet irresistibly firmly. “Wait, don't strike her. She doesn’t deserve it, I
won't stand for it.”
The man made no move to free his belt to strike, but neither did he drop his arm,
so the three remained in a frozen tableaux for one long, terrible second. Just long enough
for Richard, a City bound solicitor who rarely exercised and had not been in a fight since
a school yard incident that had seen him thrashed so hard he had stood in class for a
week, to consider the fact that he had the arm of a man in a red hot rage, who was also in
possession of a trio of inches and at least forty pounds on him, and was presumably,
somewhat more experienced than he in tavern type brawls.
His maid took that precise moment to step forward and clear her throat softly, but
she may as well have tooted the recently popularized God Save the Queen on a tin horn, for
all the attention it brought her. All three of them turned their attendance completely
upon her and with only the faintest trace of heat on her cheeks, she bobbed a respectful
curtsy.
“Mi lords, perhaps this is the perfect opportunity to address a problem with my
duties which my employer was just discussing with me.”
“I was?” Richard asked blankly. Then his brain kicked back into gear and he
immediately released his grip on the large man to snap his fingers. “I was!”
Richard looked at his maid expectantly.
“You know sir,” that smart girl went on smoothly for him, “about how, with the
butler retiring last month, I've been finding a hard time keeping up with all the work
around here. I know you don't want to have to whip me sir, but perhaps we can solve each
others' problems.”
To his credit, Richard got it immediately (his brain always had worked remarkably
well when violence was in the offing, particularly when it was grievous bodily harm, being
offered to him), and he nodded to his brutish guest. “Sir, I need another house maid. Let
me take your daughter off your hands.”
The man considered this for a long moment, then his face turned into a greedy
approximation of a doleful dubiousness, the crinkles around his eyes looking as much like
a hidden smile as an open frown. He even squeezed out a tiny sigh which could be either
doubt, the doubt of a tired mind turning over the possibilities, or a suppression of
glee.
Then he shook his head, as though he did not want to, but felt that he had to
resist. “Oh I don't know about that myself sir. She's insolent, but dear to my hart, I
couldn't let her go to just anyone. Besides, she helps me in the shop.”
Richard didn't doubt for a moment that any shop this one had earned very little in
the way of income, and if the lady did help him, then that was probably a euphemism for
him sleeping his drunken spending away while she did all the earning. Which meant his shop
would falter if she left him, and he was hanging on to his one and only meal ticket. He
might as well have been turning her out on the street. It would be a blessing to the girl
to take her away from him, and easy enough, as long as the man was assured of a steady
supply of his booze.
Though he thought all this in the space of but a moment, Richard stilled himself,
and all he said was, “I can make it worth your while. Sell her to me and you won't have to
deal with her insolence. Also, with the money from the sale you can go down to the work
house and buy another girl.” Or enough booze to keep you in the gutter for a year, he
thought, but kept his face smooth.
“Do you promise you won't get rid of her?” he asked, as if he really cared. “I
couldn't bear to think of her being passed around.”
Richard almost snorted, but managed to keep it in, he was practiced at keeping a
straight face and a smooth condoling manner. The man had a streak of the gypsy in him,
there was no doubt. In fact from his coloring, it was just possible a grandparent
some-where back in the line had been one of those rare gypsies who had made a big score
and settled in one place for a lifetime to enjoy it properly.
The man continued his doleful ramble of a tune. “You'll have to keep her, and
promise not to mistreat her.”
“I promise I will treat her very well,” Richard replied, completely meaning every
word of it. “And I will keep her, always,” not nearly as sure if he really meant it. “Do
you have a price in mind?” he inquired, pragmatical as always, an undeniable asset in his
line of work.
The brute looked around shiftily, he was not nearly as good at hiding it as a real
gypsy would be. Perhaps he was simply part Irish. “She does a lot in my shop,” he hemmed.
“Shall we say, two hundred pounds?”
“Two hundred pounds!” Richard exclaimed in shock.
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