Redemption. - Redemption. Part 89
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Redemption. Part 89

"There's a large-wheeled pushcart in the barn for just that purpose."

"Of course, how stupid of me."

"I don't blame you for being suspicious-" she began.

"Blast," he interrupted. "This is all a bit new to me. It doesn't feel quite natural without a platoon of guards."

"I quite understand. Cheers, this will help settle things."

About three-quarters through the bottle, a second one was uncorked and Llewelyn promenaded before the fire, hands clasped behind him, up on his toes, down and up on his toes again. On the sofa nearby, Caroline played her cleavage and bared leg to perfection and his attention became riveted.

If there was one thing Caroline Hubble was the master of, it was making her company feel at home. Comfortable he became. Two and a half decades of wondering about her would soon be realized.

The meal was exquisite.

He made a grope or two and she countered with an ethereal quality to touch in a way that he never had felt before or knew existed.

"I'm a dullard, Caroline, a bit unsure of myself."

"You won't be when we're through, General, we're on my battlefield now," she said, "and stopping time slowly is what we're going to do."

"Woman, you are magnificent. Why me, or is that not to ask?"

"It wouldn't have been proper of me to let my years of affection be known to you. I've always been amazed by your strength and single purpose, and you're straightforward, as a British officer should be. I've always loved those things about you. Alas, dear Roger, along with his decent side, was a very devious human being. And alas, Gorman is certainly not all that much of a man beside you."

"Why do you keep him around?"

"There aren't many men I care to be with. And those I might want, I can't have. Gorman is soft and entertaining, knows a lot of mutual jolly people."

"I want to do this job here in Ireland with such finality, the War Council must give me a command in France," he said suddenly. "I am going to return a field marshal." He caught his breath. "I want to be able to come to you on an equal basis, and as the strongest and most gallant man you've ever met."

"Maybe I can help, quietly, of course."

"Would You?"

"Llewelyn, what do you want me to say? I don't give myself easily. I am very taken by the thought of the power we could share."

"May I sit beside you, Caroline?"

"First, pour us a little Irish, something with a bit more snap to it."

Much of her lovemaking with Roger depended on her ability to fantasize, mostly to herself. Toward the end of their relation ship, she found him disgusting but played a role of feigning enjoyment. Can't take that away from a man. It is his basis of his existence. Brodhead believed his uniform was the basis of his existence. Nonsense, he was no different. All of them were the same...except...Conor Larkin.

The slug of Irish whiskey helped a bit. Her revulsion toward Llewelyn Brodhead turned to hatred. You son of a bitch, she said to herself as she smiled and looked lovingly, while he reached inside her robe and grabbed a breast.

She slowed him down with sweet kisses and whispers and he was awed into understanding that the game had a rhythm. Thank God, Caroline knew what was on his platter soon. The thought of it allowed her to translate his nauseating touches into an ecstasy. She ran her fingers through his hair and repeated, "Slowly, darling, softly," as his lips searched her neck and shoulders like a hungry hyena.

Another grand jolt of Irish whiskey. Rory was right. Sir Llewelyn could not hold his booze. It was difficult to keep him in a gentle manner when his basic existence was heading for explosion.

Better not let him make a mistake now, she thought. It would probably humiliate him into impotence. Lovely thought, but she had to play the game this night to the letter...and she played him like a Stradivarius, quitting at just the proper instant.

"If you'll excuse me for a moment, my darling," he said, breaking and calling on himself not to muck it up in front of her.

"Why don't you slip under the sheets," she said. "I'll bring the refreshments in."

Sir Llewelyn's relief came just as he closed the bathroom door behind him. He gasped, arrayed himself, now dizzy with expectation and a lot more controlled.

He got into the bed. There was a fire and uh...well...mirrors about and the place was filled with incense and there she came....

He sat up, his eyes nearly flying off his face as she slowly disrobed at the foot of the bed. All that could be heard was the heaviness of his breathing.

"Hello, there," she said, coming over the bed to him.

The rest of it was like a magnificent cavalry charge in slow motion...her words always reassuring as her hands played Chopin and Mozart over his body, including a theme or two from The Magic Flute. Distrust was gone now.

Caroline mastered him, bringing him alive, over and again until his collapse made him nigh onto immovable.

"Where are you going?" he rasped.

"A lady has to do her thing," she said. "I won't be long, darling, and darling, you are beyond wonderful...."

The pistol was in her purse, in a hidden compartment. Over there, by the dresser. Now? Think, Caroline. Don't take him too lightly. He is a trained beast. Too easy to foul up now. She was queasy and felt ravaged...violated...but to keep her head, that's what counted.

She got from the bedroom into a tub that had been heating and poured in a few buckets of water to get it right, then immersed herself and let the water's curative powers take over. From there she went to the rear porch and vomited over the railing, then under an icy shower.

She made just enough noise closing the bedroom door to find out his state. Sure enough, the bastard was not full asleep. She cuddled up alongside him and kissed him and played with him until he groaned himself asleep. Not tonight, Caroline, not tonight. Each time she turned, he seemed alert to awaken, as though he were a wolf sleeping with one eye open. Play it smart, Caroline, play it smart.

The smell of bacon drifted into the bedroom. Llewelyn popped an eye open, remembered, and groaned with a sudden, new happiness.

"There's my warrior."

He lifted his head off the pillow...slowly. Caroline, looking fresh as the morning smiled in the doorway and entered with a tray in her hands, set it on the nightstand and sat beside him. He made it to a sitting position and she kissed him.

"Caroline," he whispered.

"Here," she said, handing him the tumbler with cognac and bitters. "Take this for the tummy wobbles."

He emoted an "Ahhh," then she handed him the second glass, "A little hair that bit the dog," and she cuddled up next to him.

"Gin and tonic. Oh my. Good thing we don't have a twenty-mile forced march today." He held her strongly with one hand and held the glass with the other. "Caroline, was I, you know, all right?"

"You don't have to worry about a thing, Llewelyn," she said.

"I've never had an experience approaching this," he said.

"You're quite a man," she whispered, and touched him to see if things were alive and well. They were. "I'd like to slip into the sheets with you, but I think I'd better attend to the kitchen."

"Do I have time to shower and shave?"

"Yes," she said, "I lit the boiler. There should be plenty of hot water. Take your time, darling."

As she stood, he took her hand, and his eyes misted up. He kissed her fingers. "Can we become lovers?" he asked.

"I've been thinking about it," she said. "If you get out of Ireland and back to England, there's a lot more maneuvering room."

He watched her leave, a smitten man. Getting his legs under him took a bit of doing. He laughed and in a state of euphoria gloried in a singing shower, then lathered up to shave admiring the good-looking, virile chap in the mirror. He sipped his gin and tonic and groped around for a cigarette.

He found his smokes in the bedroom. Damned. No matches. Caroline's purse. He called but caught a glimpse of her standing outside getting a breath of air.

Oh, what the devil. The purse was double normal size and he fished about, running his fingers over the bottom. As though magnetized, his hand felt something hard through the cloth. He traced it with his fingers.

Brodhead quickly closed the door and dumped the contents of the purse on the bed. The hard object was still there but not to be seen. He turned the purse over, studying its stiff bottom. There, a secret compartment.

Llewelyn quickly solved its riddle and stared at the Lenetti pistol.

"Well, it's certainly good for one's appetite," he said, devouring a hunter's breakfast.

"Beautiful day out," she said.

"Well then, maybe we can take a little stroll?"

"I don't want to get you too tired, too early," she replied. "Ready for tea?"

"Yes, thank you." He topped his breakfast with a pastry and a second cup. "You know, Caroline," he said, rapping his fist impatiently on the table. "When we sadly have to part, I'm having it out with London. I say we resume the executions of the Easter Rising people. What do you think?"

"Oh, I think we'd better make a rule about politics."

"In our class, isn't it rather traditional to share a similar view?" he said.

"Freddie and Roger got along quite well with our differences."

"So you think we should stop it."

"It's not making us look very good to the rest of the world, in that we've stated some very noble purposes for being in this war," she said.

"To hell with what the world thinks! Did we care about world opinion when we went into India...or South Africa? Now the Turks, my late honorable enemy, there's a crowd who knows how to keep traitors in their place. Armenia sided with Russia against the Turks, and by God, they've lived to regret it."

Caroline was confused at his sudden turn. Word was just filtering out that the Turks had all but razed Armenia to the ground, killed all men of fighting age, and took old people, women, and children onto a death march all the way to Syria, guarded by the Turkish Kurds.

"The rumors of the death march are true?" she asked.

"Indeed. Those who survived the hunger, heat, rape, and beatings and got there alive were sent into huge caves in the mountainsides, hundreds of thousands of them, and the Turks sealed the openings."

"Llewelyn, what has gotten you so irritated?"

"Traitors," he answered. "Let me tell you something, Caroline. In Gallipoli, when I ordered the Australian Brigades over the Nek and the slaughter started, I had but one regret. I regretted that it was not Irish troops I was sending over. We'd have that fewer to contend with after the war."

"That's ghastly."

"That's how to put traitors down, and I daresay the world won't give a piss in hell what the Turks are doing to the Armenians. Of course, we British are a bit too civilized for that, aren't we?"

"Were we all that much better during the great famine!" she snapped. Your lousy crowd, she thought, had better get used to people winning their freedom. That's what this country is going to be all about.

She stood up and started clearing the table testily.

He reached in his jacket pocket and tossed the pistol and its six rounds on the table.

"Sit down! Over there!" he commanded.

As she attempted to speak he repeated the command with a raging voice.

Caroline sank into the sofa while he took up a chair opposite her. He had a small revolver trained on her.

"Don't move a hair. I'm a crack shot with this."

"It would have been very much nicer if you simply inquired about the pistol. I've carried it for personal protection for twenty-five years. Roger gave it to me."

"Six rounds of ammunition for two round chambers...hidden in a secret pocket...you see," he said, breaking into a sob but still holding the weapon at her. "I thought last night was real! You were toying with me all the time! You're a dirty Irish traitor! You're a whore! You are no better than those wanton Eurasian sluts!" He snarled and wheezed, the sweat near boiling from the red anger of his face. "You know who has her lover boy in London! I'll tell you. Your whore slut sister, Lady Beatrice...and I thought...I had...the one woman in the world...who was not a pig. All right, pig! Dance for me...I mean dance for me! Now!"

"Sorry, General, I will not dance for you."

"Well, we'll see. We'll see how close I can come to that lovely face of yours, before I blow it to pieces. You'll notice my pistol is also what a lady would carry. I'll put it in your hand after I split your head in half. When they find you...simple case of suicide...mother's grief..."

"Brodhead!" a man's voice boomed out.

The shock diverted him with its roaring suddenness. He turned about, looking, and in that instant Caroline was able to duck behind the stone fireplace.

Three shots boomed out from the direction of the staircase to the balcony. Brodhead fired back at a figure moving down the stairs. Rory was hit and tumbled down to the bottom of the steps.

Brodhead staggered up from his chair, screamed, then slipped to the floor, his pistol sliding out of reach and blood gushing from his chest.

Caroline came into the center of the room. Brodhead reached for his pistol. Caroline quickly picked up Rory's and aimed. Her hand was solid as steel. As Brodhead's fingers touched his pistol, Caroline fired, and she was dead true.

"Rory! Rory!"

He propped his back against the steps. "Listen up-no time for panic or discussions...ask only easy questions...move quickly..."

"Hit? Where?"

"Shoulder...neck...see if bullet passed through..."

She leaned him forward, ripped his shirt open, and felt his back. Blood and a hole. "Yes, it went through. There's blood on your back."

"He dead?"

"Very."