Cry of the Curlew: The Frontier Series 1 (37 page)

He was quick to notice the beautiful woman’s deliberately exposed ankle beneath the long skirt. The damned woman was trying to seduce him with her coquettish ways, he brooded. At the same time he found her strangely attractive, unlike many of the other women he had met ashore in the past. She had the brazen look of a woman who would not flinch at anything of a carnal nature and he felt an attraction to her that he had not known with other women. Yes, he would play her game. But it was up to the sister of his employer to make the proposal, as he did not want to cross Granville. He could possibly lose the
Osprey
if the sister bleated that he, Mort, had made indecent approaches to her. But somehow he suspected that the woman was not the kind to run to her brother about such matters.

‘I would assume, Captain Mort, that in your travels in the South Seas you must encounter strange and, how should I put it, ah,
exotic
native customs,’ Penelope said huskily with the emphasis on ‘exotic’, which she clearly inferred to mean
erotic
. He was aware of what she meant and he smiled knowingly.

‘I have, Miss White. But I am afraid I would not dare repeat to a lady the things that I have witnessed the heathen natives practising,’ he replied with a slightly teasing tone at her aroused interest. ‘I am afraid the pagan practices are not fit for the sensibilities of polite and beautiful company such as yours.’

Penelope leant forward and touched Mort on the knee lightly. He tensed, as it was not the act of a lady to do such a thing to a man she barely knew.

. . .
Make them stop hurting me
. . .

‘Please tell me, Captain Mort,’ she said softly. ‘I am a student of human behaviour and I feel you could teach me much from your worldly experiences.’

Mort stared at her with a smouldering interest. There was little need to go any further with the game, as it had already been won. When he smiled and brushed her hand with his fingers, she experienced a delicious shiver of anticipation ripple through her body.

‘Do you have a carriage, Miss White?’ he asked quietly, fixing her gaze with his.

‘Yes, I do have a carriage, Captain,’ she replied, holding his gaze with brazen acceptance of his meaning, and she slowly withdrew her hand from Mort’s thigh. ‘Could I possibly take you somewhere tonight after you have completed your business with my brother?’

He nodded and with an enigmatic smile replied, ‘I would be very grateful if you could take me back to my ship tonight. I think I have something in my cabin that will be of great interest to a student of human behaviour.’

Penelope had a strange feeling she was only hours from exploring a whole new world of pleasure.

Mort’s cabin aboard the
Osprey
was cramped.

It was cramped because of the chunky wooden bench that took up much of the confined space in the cabin. The bench was a perversion of the beautiful timber that had been used in its construction and the once-living trees had lost their souls to hell in the crafting of the device.

Penelope recognised the whipping bench for what it was. She had an irresistible urge to run her hand along the smooth surface and she felt it grow into impulsive desire to feel the smooth and silky wood, which was mottled with dark blotches.

So the bench had been used for its intended purpose, Penelope mused idly, and she thought, for an erotic but perverse moment, of an altar used for human sacrifice. The kind of altar that might have been used by the Druids in the dark forests of northern Europe in a time before Christianity spread its repressive teachings.

Mort stood watching the beautiful woman stroking the bench under the sickly glow of the oil lantern that cast its feeble light in the tiny cabin and he could clearly see that she was reluctant to take her hand away from the smooth and oily surface of the timber.

‘It is a whipping bench, Miss White,’ he said unnecessarily.

Penelope answered in a distant and dreamy voice, ‘I know.’

‘Would you like a rum?’ he asked as he ratted through a sea chest that was jammed against the single bunk fixed into the bulkhead.

‘No,’ Penelope answered as she gazed around the cabin, which had a lack of personal adornments, except for the sword hanging in its scabbard over the bunk. Mort was a very neat man who kept everything in its place. Just like Granville, she mused. Her social and sometimes sexual contact with the regimental officers of Sydney’s garrisons had taught her the difference between a cavalry sabre and an infantry sword and she thought it was rather unusual for a man who had served with the Native Mounted Police to own an infantry sword rather than a sabre.

She turned to Mort, who stood awkwardly in the cabin holding the bottle of rum, and she slowly began to undress in front of him.

He stood expressionless as he watched the layers of her clothes fall away until Penelope stood wearing only the long pantaloons that were divided discreetly at the centre, designed for calls of nature.

She raised her arms above her head to undo the pins that secured her long silky tresses and her hair fell as a golden shower around her shoulders. Then she turned and lay forward across the whipping bench – gripping the stout legs with her hands. Her own legs spread enticingly to Mort’s view as her lustrous long blonde hair cascaded to the cabin floor.

‘I will have to secure your wrists,’ Mort said in a hoarse voice thick with lust. ‘For you to experience the full effect, Miss White,’ he added as he placed the rum bottle carefully back in the sea chest and produced thin strips of leather.

Penelope smiled dreamily as he tied her hands securely to the legs of the bench. She was now completely vulnerable to whatever his fertile mind should conjure for their mutual pleasure. Bound and helpless, she imagined that she was a native girl being punished for resisting the captain’s pleasure. She smiled with delicious anticipation of what he would do to her as punishment. She was unable to see Mort reach for the sword above his bunk because of the manner of her bondage, but she did hear the soft and metallic hiss of the blade slide from the scabbard. The lovingly oiled silver blade was out of its sheath and in the hands of its cruel master.

How could she know
. . .?

He stood behind the helpless woman and contemplated the erotic sight of her firmly rounded buttocks straining against the shiny and creamy silk of the pantaloons. A sweaty feverish sheen gave his face a garish and hellish look as the demons of his twisted mind took control of his actions and the murderous captain could see that she was utterly unafraid of him.

How could she know . . .

The sharp tip of the sword slowly caressed the exposed milky white flesh that was revealed where the pantaloons divided and its cold and unexpected kiss was an electric shock to her body. Penelope flinched when she felt the flat of the blade slide down slowly and precisely between her legs and over the most intimate parts of her body. She shuddered with the thrill of terror and sensual ecstasy and her moan of pleasure filled the small cabin.

How could she know . . .

The
Osprey
was once again at sea. And the helpless girl was begging to be impaled with the symbol of his manhood!

‘I should stick the sword up you, you black bitch,’ he hissed as the point of the sword lingered lightly at the entrance to Penelope’s body.

‘Yess,’ she sighed softly with her fear heightened and an overwhelming desire to be entered. ‘Do it!’

She could feel the tip caressing the entrance to her body and experienced the most extreme fear and anticipation of death she had ever known. Pain and pleasure came together as one. The creature born out of the depths of humanity’s most evil and perverted desires was as old as the demons that had lived with the powerful who preyed on the weak.

The sharp tip of the infantry sword lingered menacingly at the yielding flesh between her thighs and then, slowly and gently, the tip of the blade entered her just the shortest distance. Mort shuddered violently as the uncontrollable spasms swept him with waves of violent relief. The sword clattered from his nerveless grip onto the cabin floor and he buckled and fell to his knees behind Penelope. How could she know his terrible desire to hurt those with the power to bear life . . . to inflict an unspeakable perversity on little boys.

‘Kiss me there,’ she said in a commanding voice distant with her rapture. ‘Kiss me there, Captain Mort, and drink of my body.’

He crawled forward to obey her order and his lips pressed against her. His mouth opened to receive her offering, which flowed warm into his mouth and he drank greedily. They were now bound as one in their mutual pleasure.

As Penelope felt the tip of the sword caressing her body, her brother stepped with his wife from their carriage at the house Donald Macintosh had purchased for his daughter as a wedding gift.

The house was much smaller than the Macintosh mansion overlooking the harbour but it was new and luxurious and Granville had gratefully accepted the wedding gift from his father-in-law, despite the fact that the house belonged to his wife. It did not matter, as one day all the Macintosh property would be his anyway.

Fiona bade the carriage driver a good evening, whereas Granville did not bother to thank him. It was not in his nature to give praise or compliments to people employed by him.

Husband and wife stood alone in cold silence on the driveway in front of their grand house as the carriage rattled away. Their conversation on the journey home had been limited to how well Penelope appeared. Or what a nice dinner Enid had provided for the guests. It had been trite talk between two people with little interest in each other and now Fiona was weary and looked forward to a good night’s sleep.

She was about to walk towards the front door when they were startled by the figure standing in the shadows of the garden and Fiona gasped with fright. Granville gripped his wife’s elbow and summoned as much courage as he could to demand the man step forward. The man obeyed and Granville felt a profound sense of relief to see that it was only Harris, his former gardener.

‘Harris! What in Hades are you doing standing around here frightening my wife?’ he demanded arrogantly as the gardener shuffled from the shadows. In the dim light, Granville could see that his former gardener was a very ill man who had all the signs of advanced consumption.

‘Come to see you, Mister White,’ he said quietly as he glanced at Fiona standing beside her husband. ‘Rather you and I talk privately if you don’t mind.’ Granville felt uneasy about the request, as there was only one thing the two men had in common. And he was not about to let his wife know what that was.

‘You go inside and see to our daughters, Fiona,’ Granville said quietly to his wife, who stared at the former gardener. She remembered that he had once worked for her husband and she felt a touch of pity for the sickly man. She could not help but wonder why the gardener had suddenly decided to visit her husband. Years had passed since Granville had dismissed him from service. But she did not question Granville and did as he directed.

Fiona was met by the girls’ formidable nanny at the front door. She cast the gardener a contemptuous look. It was not fitting that such a disreputable-looking person hang around the gardens of good Christian people.

‘ ’E came early this evenin’ lookin’ for Mister White,’ the nanny said as she ushered her mistress inside the house. ‘Told ’im youse was out but he refused to go until ’e saw Mister White. ’E’s been no bother though.’

When the nanny closed the door, Granville turned angrily on Harris.

‘I’ve told you, Harris, that you were never to come to my house and bother me,’ he snarled.

The gardener looked Granville directly in the eye. ‘Jenny had a baby today,’ he said. ‘She’s had a baby boy. Your boy, Mister White.’

Granville felt a cold vice grip his chest. The stupid girl had got herself pregnant! ‘I deny what you say to be true, Harris,’ Granville snarled as he took a threatening step towards the gardener. ‘And I suggest very strongly that you leave now or I will have the police fetched to throw you in gaol.’

Although Harris was not a robust man, as the insidious disease of tuberculosis had long drained his strength, he refused to be cowed by his former employer’s threatening attitude. What more could be done to him that God had not already punished him for?

Harris coughed, a deep hacking cough that caused Granville to step back lest he catch the dreaded sickness.

‘It’s your kid right enough, Mister White,’ he finally said, after he was able to bring the coughing fit under control. Dark mucus covered the gardener’s shirt sleeve where he had wiped his mouth. Sweat covered the man’s face from the exertion. The coughing had drained his reserves of strength. ‘And I’ll tell Missus Macintosh so if you don’t listen to what I say,’ he added in a voice wheezy from coughing.

Granville realised the gardener meant what he said, as there was a defiance in the man he had never seen before. Jennifer was twelve now and although he had seen the obvious signs of her body turning from a prepubescent girl into that of a young woman, he had been careless concerning the risk of pregnancy.

He had dismissed the gardener but had paid for a small tenement to house the man and his young daughter where he could visit the girl on a regular basis until six months earlier, when Jennifer had simply disappeared. Granville had the gardener evicted and sold the house, as the man was of no use to him without access to his daughter. Now it was clear why she had run away.

‘You can tell Missus Macintosh anything you like,’ Granville said contemptuously in an attempt to bluff the gardener. ‘I doubt if she will believe your slut of a daughter is the mother of my child.’

Harris shrugged his shoulders and turned to shuffle away, but Granville sensed that the man was not leaving. He believed his threat that he was actually going to tell Enid Macintosh. He felt real fear verging on panic, as relations with his mother-in-law were tentative at the best of times.

‘Wait!’ he cried out to the gardener, who had taken a few steps. ‘Wait, Harris. I think we can come to an agreement in the best interests of you and me.’