The Swashbuckling Yarn of Milady Vixen (11 page)

A chubby man beside the duke shook his head, making his walrus-like jowls shiver and quake comically.

“Her identity is verified, Your Grace,” he rasped breathlessly. “She has freely admitted this to her captors.”

“I say, what a prize she is. I heard not she was a Negro, and nary a word about her stunning appearance.”

“I wouldn’t know, Your Grace. Most men shiver in their boots at the mere mention of her name.”

“Well, I am no superstitious sailor to quake in fear from the mention of a mere woman’s name,” he hissed, catlike. “However, I would make sport of her to show the citizens of Purdy-on-the-Sea how craven a female pirate truly is.”

“Your Grace, we have strict orders to turn the prisoners over to the high court, for the king himself wishes to be present at her trial. The correspondence clearly stated she was to suffer no ill treatment,” the fat advisor cautioned. “Milady Vixen is to be remanded to the capital alive and well, along with her murderous crew.”

“Am I not the duke of Purdy-on-the-Sea? Is this not the title bequeathed to me for loyal service to the crown?”

“It is, Your Grace.”

“Then I will extract a bit of vengeance for my people to enjoy, since this trollop’s activities—illegal and unwarranted at that—made them suffer. Send word throughout the city that Milady Vixen will adorn a gibbet’s cage. No, strike that! I perceive thirty lashes or so in the city proper will better soothe my people’s despair.”

“B-but Your Grace!”

“Silence, Gaglard, or you shall find yourself next in line for said entertainments.”

The fop stared at Vixen, who returned the gaze without blinking. The smirk twisting her lips gave the duke reason to engage her in conversation.

“You wish to speak, wench?” he tittered at her.

“I wouldn’t waste nary a word on the likes of you.” She laughed.

“You dare!”

“Run back to your kennel like the puppy you are. Perhaps the bitch that bore you will permit you to suckle upon her teats for comfort. I deem you unworthy of comment, you flippant, powdered boy-lover.”

The pampered youth shot from his chair like he had been kicked in the seat of his silken pantaloons. He quivered with rage at her words.

“Boy-lover! How dare you impugn my honor!” he squeaked. “I will have your head for this!”

“Guard ye passions well, for it is by royal decree I am shipped off to his chicken-livered majesty—alive and well, I believe the phrase was,” she stated with merriment.

“Fine. I rescind my instructions to have you publicly flogged—but other amusements will befall you ere you travel the dusty, hell-bound road to justice.”

“I fear nothing in the house of my father, you knave.”

“Your father’s house! This has been my family’s home for over ten years!”

“Before you fouled it with your foppish presence, it was mine. Only by the devious dealings of the courts do you hold the place which is rightfully mine. Strut, cluck and crow all ye like, you feathered peacock, but your deedless family was given the station you hold by way of lying lawyers and corrupt judges.”

“Such insolence I have never witnessed before! I will have you humbled at my feet ere you leave this keep! Shamed and humiliated, you will cower in fear of me.”

“Try ye damndest, for ye will never break my will!”

“To the dungeons with the both of you!”

At this stage of the game, I do believe Vixen should have remained silent, but her blood was up and the red veil of rage was draped over her eyes. Then again, the way things turned out, perhaps her slanderous insults just needed saying.

Humiliated, Harried and Hornswoggled

The thin gruel stuck to the side of the jailer’s face, hanging down his cheek in a humorous manner. The wooden spoon and bowl still clattered and rolled upon the flagstones. Vixen was proud of her aim.

“Why, you filthy slut!” the huge man thundered.

“Ye would know the term, since the wench who spat you out of her womb would wear the name with pride.” She laughed.

“I should come in there and teach you some manners.”

“You enter this cell, you will be exiting it aft first.”

His jaw worked up and down, but in the end he strode off angrily, muttering obscenities under his breath.

“Must we make our lot in life worse?” Tom said lightly. “What ill humor has you in its grip, my Cap’n?”

“You’ll see.”

Before either could speak another word, the tramping sound of many marching feet cut off any further queries. Vixen chuckled when she saw the seven well-armed soldiers sent to fetch her. She had been waiting patiently, toying with the jailer’s emotions just for fun.

Aye, now the true bane of my temper doth send for me!
She grinned.

“Wench!” the burliest of the warriors growled. “Duke Popinjay would like you to be his entertainment this night. Strip off your clothes.”

“Am I to dress like a cabin boy so he can rise to the occasion?”

The sea-wolves caged around her roared with laughter, for the tale of her insults had been told over and over. They rolled around the filthy hay like deranged monkeys. Hooting and hollering, they altered their voices to sound like girlish men pleading for sweets.

“Shut up, the lot of you!” the sergeant shouted. “Or by thunder, I will have you all flogged!”

Sliding out of her clothes, Vixen didn’t blush from the whistles and catcalls of her shipmates. Tom, however, seemed to mind a great deal. Stark naked with her brown skin glowing, she crossed her arms while the soldiers unlocked her cage. They leveled sharp bayonets at her waist, and teasingly she stroked one just for a laugh.

“Ooh, what big lances you have,” she cooed. “I pray my dinner companion wields something of similar length—yet I doubt it. Perhaps you boys could finish what your liege will obviously fail to provide me. What say you?”

The Jack Tars around her shrieked with mirth while the guards turned bright red and shuffled their feet in embarrassment.

“I thought not. There be not a man-jack amongst you, is there?” Vixen provoked them.

“Come along quietly, you brazen wench,” the sergeant muttered.

“Give ‘em hell, Cap’n!” the pirates yelled.

“Don’t do anything rash,” Tom said after their cries died down.

“You know me, don’t you, Tom?” she smirked.

“Aye! That’s why I said it.”

With a swaying of her hips and jiggle of her bosom, Vixen emerged from her imprisonment to find herself quickly surrounded by red-faced, yet aroused men. They ascended the stairs amid the lusty laughs and dirty jokes of her staunch crew.

Entering the duke’s private quarters, she frowned at the changes to the décor, furnishings and rugs. Her father was a man of simple pleasures and tastes. However, the dandy now holding his title was a creature deplorably indulgent in soft comforts and decadent treasures. Silk throw pillows, a canopied bed and a dresser better suited for a lady’s chamber stood proudly arranged within.

“Here’s the prisoner, Your Grace,” the gruff man in charge of her escort said.

“Thank you, Sergeant Willis; that will be all,” Duke Popinjay tittered.

“Surely you would prefer her hands and feet bound?”

“I have my pistol, and I fear nothing from this female.”

“But Your Grace—this is Milady Vixen, not some common wench!”

“I gave you orders, man. Don’t seek to rise above yourself and chide your betters.”

“As you wish, Duke Popinjay.”

The door closed, and Vixen folded her arms under her ample breasts. The tiny flintlock in His Grace’s hands was enough to keep her at bay, so she didn’t rush him.

“I wonder,” he began with a sneer, “if you realize the position you are in. At my slightest whim I could summon those men back with a simple tug on yonder bell rope.”

“I only fear boredom while you nervously try to mount me,” she flung back. “That is why you’ve sent for me? To salve the injury I inflicted with my words this morning?”

“I will take you in every fashion I desire. Yes, you have the right of it. However, you will find my tastes are a bit more exotic than your average pirate’s.”

Reaching a nearby cabinet, he pulled it open and smiled at the contents, unseen by Vixen.

“I am betting you do not know how you came to be captured. No? Well, let me enlighten you. I have struck up a deal to end the Gastonians’ use of privateers such as yourself. I recently met with a Marquis de Poste who gave us all the ports and ocean paths you might use.”

“You lie!” she spat.

“Oh, it is quite true. With the blessings of my king, I have been engaging in direct negotiations with this man. I am upset, however, since my liege demanded I not punish you myself and wishes to keep that pleasure to himself. But never mind, never mind; I shall enjoy your screams if only for a single night.”

With a flourish, the duke withdrew a long cat o’ nine tails and, cracking it with an expert’s twist of his wrist, he smiled evilly at her.

“Oh-ho! You are a beater of women, are you?!” she snickered. “Does it prop up your withered manhood to see a female helpless at your feet? Do you think you can make me beg, cry or plead for mercy? Foolish boy-lover, I will not bend so easily.”

With a snap of his shoulder, Duke Popinjay sent the whip in her direction. Its tail flicked across her stomach, lancing her skin with burning stripes. Vixen sucked in a gasp. The hot trails upon her skin burned like a demon’s kiss.

“Now where is your insolent tongue?” He chuckled. “Have I stilled it with just a single lash?”

“You only wish it were so—you buggering bastard!” she hissed.

“I will tear the hide off you!”

The whip arched her way once more, but Vixen thrust out her arm parallel to the carpet. The leather wound its ends around her supple limb, and she yanked back hard, tugging the duke off his feet. His pistol flew through the air. Noting its trajectory, she watched it land twenty paces from its owner’s hand before bouncing to a rest on the canopied top of the bed.

On nimble feet she danced forward and swung a foot to knock the sadist out cold. He dodged and hopped to his feet, his fists cocked in front of him. He stood, knuckles facing upward and his thumbs back toward his face, like some comical boxer.

“I am the master of fisticuffs!” he declared loudly. “I will enjoy thrashing you. Too bad you won’t be much of a fight; I would wish for a better opponent.”

She kicked him in the balls, depriving his sails of any further wind.

“Foul!” he squealed through his clenched teeth.

“Sorry, I don’t adhere to the Marquis of Queensbury’s rules,” she said.

On teetering legs the royal headed toward the bell rope, but Vixen was hot on his heels. She snatched up his arm and, with a toss, flung him onto the bed. Leaping across the distance, she meant to take him by the throat and throttle him to death. He raised a knee instead. The bent limb’s point struck her amidships, blasting the breath from her lungs. Hugging her middle, she gasped for air while the duke staggered up and stumbled toward the summoning device.

“Oh no you don’t,” she wheezed.

Gripping a pillow, she flung it at his legs. He hit the carpet knees first and yelped in pain. She sprung from the mattress, somewhat wobbly, only to have him kick her in the upper thigh. Landing on the kneeling perfumed dandy, she knocked him to the floor with a thump.

“Get off,” he husked out.

“Not with the likes of you,” she jested.

Entwining her legs around his middle and her arms around his throat, Vixen rolled over. She looked like an upside-down crab embracing another member of its race. If anyone had cause to enter the duke’s apartments, they would’ve thought it was a reenactment of some queer, aquatic mating dance.

“Well, Archie.” She laughed. “You wanted a bit more of a fight out of your entertainment, but I fear it may be too much for you.”

He elbowed her in the gullet, and she relaxed her grip. He sprang away from her like an arrow shot from a bow. On nerveless legs he reached the bell rope.

“Blast you and be thrice damned,” Vixen gurgled, watching him tug it frantically.

Climbing to her feet, she once more dealt him a swift kick amidships, and this time it carried all her anger and frustration of ten odd years. Archie’s face turned beet red and his eyes crossed. He toppled to the floor like a pole-axed cow to lie there, wheezing and moaning pitifully.

“Shit!” she swore. “The guards are coming!”

Launching herself to the bedposts, she shinnied up them like she had done so many times on a mast onboard a ship. She laid her hand on the dainty pistol just as the red-coated sentries entered the fray. Vixen leaped to the floor and got behind the weeping royal, his own weapon pressed muzzle first to his temple.

“Avast ye!” she commanded. “Move not a step, or this powder-faced whelp will be dancing a jig in Hell!”

“She has a pistol!” one of them shouted.

“Aye, and unlike your sadistic master, I know how to wield one.”

“State yer terms, pirate!” the sergeant muttered.