Flashman and the Angel of the Lord. George Fraser MacDonald

carried a long scarf of black silk over one arm – and then to my astonishment I saw it was her hair, gathered in from behind.

      ‘Sir Harree!’ again, with a glowing smile and her free hand extended, and since we were alone and I was bursting with buck I pressed my lips to her fingers – and nuzzled swiftly up her naked arm in Flashy’s flank attack, across shoulder and neck to her cheek and fastened on her full red lips. She didn’t even gasp; after a second her mouth opened wide, and when I drew her in with a hand on her rump she clung like a good ’un while I kneaded avidly and breathed in her heavy perfume … and then the blasted butler’s step sounded at the stairhead, and she broke away, flushed and laughing, and quickly drew herself up, mock demure.

      ‘How-de-do, Sir Harree?’ says she, bobbing a curtsey. ‘So kind of you to coll! May I offer you some … refreshment?’

      ‘Another o’ the same, marm, if you please,’ says I, and she burst out laughing and drew me out on to a shady verandah commanding a splendid view of the sunlit Bay. There was a low table with liquor and tidbits (for two, I noticed), and cushioned rattan swing-chairs, and when the butler had poured us iced slings and tottered away, she made pretty work of seating herself, shrugging this way and that to display her shape, and sweeping that wondrously long hair over the back of her seat – I’d known at first sight that she was a great show-off, and now she raised her glass with a flourish in smiling salute.

      ‘Thatt is iced brandy and orange, Sir Harree! Your favourite in New Orleans, so Papa told me … among other things, oah yess!’

      ‘Did he, now? Observant chap, Papa.’ How the blazes had he come to tell her that? ‘But you mustn’t believe all he tells you, you know.’

      ‘Oah, but I want to!’ cries she, quite the rogue. ‘Such a shocking character he gave you, you can nott imagine!’ She sat erect, counting on slim fingers. ‘Lett me see … oll your naughtee ways, drinking, and smoking and … that you are a verree shameless rake – but he would give no particulars, was that nott mean of him? … oah, and that you were a scoundrel, and told stretchers – and he said you were most cowardlee – which I did nott believe, you are so famous –’

      ‘But you believed the rest, eh?’

      ‘Butt of carse, Sir Harree!’ Her voice had the native sing-song that can be delightful in a woman, but in her excitement the chi-chi vowels slipped out hot and strong, and for an instant the ivory skin seemed a shade darker, and the sharp nose and heavy brows more pronounced, as she gestured and prattled – and I admired the stirring curves of breast and hip under the flimsy muslin: never mind the pasture it comes from, it’s the meat that matters.

      ‘Papa said, of oll the bad men he had known, you were quite the worst!’ She shook her head, wide-eyed. ‘So of carse I must see for myself, you knoaw? Are you so verree wicked … Harree?’

      ‘Here, I’ll show you!’ says I, and lunged at her, but she drew back, with a pretty little comical flutter towards the hall, where I supposed the butler was lurking, and pressed me to try the tidbits, especially a great sticky bowl of creamed chocolate – in summer! – which she spooned into herself with gluttonous delicacy, between sips at her sling, teasing me with sidelong smiles and assuring me that the mixture was ‘quite heavenlee’.

      Well, women flirt all ways to bed: there are the kittens who like to be tickled, and the cats who must be coaxed while they pretend to claw, and the tigresses who have only one end in mind, so to speak. I’d marked Miranda Spring as a novice tigress at our first meeting, and our grapple in the hall had shown her a willing one; if it amused her to play the wanton puss, well, she was seventeen, and a chi-chi, and they’re a theatrical breed, so I didn’t mind – so long as she didn’t prove a mouse, as some of these brazen chits do at the first pop of a button. She seemed nervous and randy together – yet was there a gleam of triumph in the eager smile? Aye, probably couldn’t believe her luck.

      ‘So Papa warned you off, did he? And did he tell you he’d sworn to kill me if I came near you?’

      ‘Oah, yess! Jollee exciting! He is so jealous, you know, it is a great bore, for he has kept away oll sarts of boys – men, I mean – ollways thee ones I like best, too! Nott saying he would kill them, you understand,’ she giggled, ‘but you know how he can be.’

      ‘M’mh … just an inkling. Cramps your style, does he?’

      She tossed her head and dabbed cream from her lips with a fold of her dress. ‘Nott when he is in Grahamstown!’

      ‘When the cat’s away, eh? Finished your pudding, have you? Very good, let’s play!’ I made another lunge, and got home this time, seizing her bosom and stopping her mouth, and the lustful slut lay there revelling in it, thrusting her tongue between my teeth, with never a thought for the butler, and I was wondering how we were going to perform the capital act on a cane swing only four feet long, when she purred in my ear: ‘Once upon a time, the cat came home …’

      Fortunately the swing was anchored, or we’d have been over.

      ‘What! D’you mean –’

      ‘Oah, not from Grahamstown, sillee! Papa was here, in town, but not expected. It was two years ago, when I was onlee fifteen, and quite stupid, you knoaw – and there was a French gentleman from Mauritius, much older, but whom I liked ever so … And Papa flew into a great rage, and forbade him to see me – but then Papa was absent, and Michel came to the house … to my room, quite late … and Papa came home from the club, quite early …’

      ‘Jesus! What then?’

      ‘Nothing, then … Papa looked at him, in that way he has, and said “You’re receipted and filed, mister”, and Michel laughed at him, and went away.’ You’re a better man than I am, Michel, thinks I. ‘And a little time after, they found poor Michel on Robben Island. He had been flogged to death with a sjambok.’

      Just what a fellow needs to hear when he’s coming to the boil, you’ll agree – but I’m the lad who bulled a Malay charmer in the midst of a battle on the Batang Lupar, regardless of shot and steel – and now the wicked bitch was half way down my throat, and rummaging below-stairs with an expert hand. And while I didn’t doubt her story, knowing her fiend of a father, I knew she’d told it only to plague me. And Spring was in Grahamstown – I’d inquired.

      ‘I’ll give you sjambok, my lady!’ growls I, and lifted her bodily out of the swing, but even as I cast about for galloping room, she left off gnawing at me and panted: ‘Wait … let me show you!’ I set her down, and she seized my hand, hurrying me down to the garden and through a screen of shrubs to a small stone jetty beyond, and there was the smartest little steam yacht moored, all brass and varnish shining in the sun, and not a soul aboard that I could see.

      ‘For our picnic,’ says she, and her voice was shrill with excitement. She led the way up the swaying plank, and I followed, slavering at the plump stern bobbing under the muslin, and down into the cool shadows of a spacious cabin. I seized her, fore and aft, but she slipped from my lustful grasp, whispering ‘A moment!’ and slammed a door in my face.

      While I tore off my clobber, I had time to look about me, and note that J. C. Spring, M.A., did himself as well afloat as he did ashore. There was polished walnut and brocade, velvet curtains on the ports, fine carpet and leather furniture, and even a fireplace with a painting of some Greek idiots in beards – it was a bigger craft than I’d realised, and rivalled the one in which Suleiman Usman had carried us to Singapore; through an open door I could see a lavatory in marble and glass, with a patent showerbath, which for some reason made me randier than ever, and I pounded on her door, roaring endearments; it swung open under my fist, and there she was, on t’other side of the bed, posed with her back to the bulkhead. For a moment I stood staring, and Spring and old Arnold would have been proud of me, for my first thought was ‘Andromeda on her rock, awaiting the monster, ha-ha!’ which proves the benefit of a grounding in the classics.

      She was stark naked – and yet entirely clad, for she had cinched