Cauldron of Fear (8 page)

'Keep your
arse still, girlie!' a gruff voice said, speaking close to her ear.
'You ain't goin' nowhere and you'll only tire yourself out.'

A few minutes
later Sarah heard the sound of jingling harnesses, accompanied by
muttered grunts and followed almost immediately by the sounds of
more slaps and then whinnying and hooves clattering forward and
quickly fading into the distance. Even in her terrified and shocked
state she understood what was happening - the highway robbers had
unhitched the team from the coach and sent it galloping on its way,
obviously with the intention of delaying the rest of their victims
from raising the alarm.

'Right then,
girlie,' the same voice said again, 'we're going for a little ride,
so you just stay still and you won't hurt yourself.' The horse
moved and dipped beneath her as the rider mounted behind Sarah and,
as it began to move off, to her utter shame, she realised that she
was wetting herself in fear!

Roderick
Grayling leaned back in his deep armchair and raised the brandy
glass to his lips, half closing his eyes as he savoured the
sensuousness of the moment. Between his splayed and naked legs, the
diminutive black female slave knelt dutifully, her thick lips
working steadily up and down the length of his rampant member, her
tongue caressing the straining flesh with its usual skill. With his
free hand he reached out and patted the shaven head and smiled as
the two huge eyes rolled upwards to regard him.

'Good girl,
Popsy,' he whispered. 'You earn your juices well.' He smiled
contentedly to himself and closed his eyes, relaxing into the near
trance that his well trained slave could always manage to induce in
him, congratulating himself on the decision he had made, two years
since, to keep the young African twin sisters for his personal
diversion. The Arab trader demanded a high price for the pair, but
it had proven money well spent, Roderick now considered.

Less than five
feet tall, Popsy and Topsy, as he named them, had slim, well
muscled bodies, with wide hips, prominent buttocks and well
developed breasts, all features which had matured since their
arrival at Grayling Hall, for they could have been little more than
seventeen or eighteen years old when he first set eyes upon
them.

Unlike the
white slave girls, the twins had no false modesty about appearing
naked and, except during the really cold months, habitually wore
nothing except the gold decorations Roderick placed there - gold
collars, gold wristlets and anklets, gold nipple rings and tiny
gold rings through their elongated clitorises, plus heavy gold
pendants dangling from their earlobes.

The gleaming
yellow metal contrasted beautifully with their dark coffee skins,
as did the pale white paint they used upon their eyelids and the
rouge they wore on their lips, in imitation of their European
counterparts, was echoed on their nipples, giving an overall effect
that Roderick found more erotic than anything else he could
imagine.

In addition,
they had proved easy to train and any use of the whip on their
gleaming bodies now was purely for Roderick's enjoyment, for he
knew how the kiss of the lash could reduce either girl to the level
of a lusting animal in seconds. Not that they ever appeared to need
much encouragement, for they both worshipped their aristocratic
master and vied with each other for the prime position in his
affections.

As Popsy now
redoubled her efforts, Topsy rose from her squatting position
before the fireplace and padded seductively across the thick
oriental carpet, swaying deliberately from side to side, cupping
her full breasts and lifting them in a gesture of deliberate
supplication. Through slitted eyes Roderick watched her approach
and nodded.

She drew
closer, leaned across him and guided one nipple towards his lips.
With a stifled growl he drew the teat into his mouth, sucking upon
it greedily, groaning again as he felt her soft hands tracing lines
on his chest and then circling his own hardened nipples.

Suddenly his
back arched and his head flew back and his thick shaft began to
buck, pumping his semen into the willing mouth that held fast to it
still, sucking furiously, eager to accept every drop of what
Roderick knew both girls considered magic strength.

'Good girls,'
he moaned. 'My two good girls.' He closed his eyes again, his head
lolling onto his shoulder and, as the brandy glass slipped from his
fingers and dropped onto the thick pile, he fell instantly into a
drunken, sated slumber.

'This is
getting ridiculous!' Thomas Handiwell stormed, banging his fist
down on the bar counter. The young army officer, his ridiculously
young features creased with a mixture of concern and embarrassment,
shuffled his feet uncertainly and cast a sideways and hopeful
glance towards the door, as if eager to escape the coming tirade -
which he was.

'Scandalous!'
Handiwell barked, and this time punched his left palm with the
balled fist of his right hand. 'Look man, look, for God's sake!' He
pointed vigorously to the corner bench, where the wounded coach
driver was being tended by two of his maids. 'You reckon this sort
of thing should be allowed to continue, lieutenant?'

'Er, well no,
sir.' Lieutenant John Scarisbrooke took a deep breath. 'But I can
do nothing, sir, as I have already said. Sergeant Atkins and myself
are simply travelling to Portsmouth, to join our regiment there,
ready for embarkation. I have no jurisdiction here.'

'Jurisdiction?' Handiwell cast his eyes heavenwards and let out a
dramatic sigh of frustration. 'Jurisdiction, man? You think these
highway robbers have any jurisdiction on these roads, do you?'

'No, of course
not, sir, but I understand that the patrols on the highway here are
under the command of Captain Digwell-Short at the Hindhead
garrison—'

'And a lot of
damned good they've been so far,' Handiwell cut him short. 'This is
the seventh coach robbery in less than two months, d'you know that,
sir? And where are Captain Digwell-damned-Short's troopers, eh?
Never there when they're needed, that's where!'

'Sir,'
Scarisbrooke said, raising a placating hand, 'I understand your
frustration and I will be sure to convey your thoughts to my
commanding officer when I reach Portsmouth. Perhaps he can exert
some influence.'

'He could send
us a couple of companies of redcoats, that's what he could do,'
Handiwell rumbled. 'There've been troops in Portsmouth waiting to
embark for these past six months, to my certain knowledge. Instead
of leaving 'em to carousing the ale houses of that den of iniquity,
why not put a few of them to proper soldiering?'

'I'll do my
best, sir,' Scarisbrooke promised, though both men knew that the
likelihood of even a score of troops being sent back up from the
coast was as remote as the Indies in the New World. Handiwell
conceded that he would be wasting any further efforts on the young
officer and turned away, striding across to stand over the injured
coachman and his two fussing attendants.

'You're lucky,
Dick Willett,' he muttered, seeing the small lead projectile lying
on the adjacent table. 'The fellow is still using that small shot.
A normal pistol ball would have ripped your arm off at that close
range.'

Willett,
grimacing as one of the women began tightening a bandage about his
upper arm, nodded. 'Aye,' he agreed, 'but it hurts nonetheless, and
it still made plenty of blood. Damn me, but I should have halted
when he first called out. He was far enough back that I didn't
think he had that much chance of hitting me.'

'Sounds like
the same fellow as shot George Cosworth last month,' Handiwell
said. 'Took him in the shoulder from fifty paces - damned good
shooting, with a pistol and in the dark. There were four of them
again, too, so it seems like the same gang.'

'Lucky neither
of us was killed,' Willett growled.

Handiwell
narrowed his eyes. 'I doubt there was that much luck involved,' he
said. 'I don't think this fellow is out to kill, otherwise he'd
have put a ball straight through your chest, which is a far bigger
target. No, he's no murderer, though he'll swing anyway, when he's
caught.'

'They took the
woman,' Willett said. 'Grabbed her and bundled her over a horse,
all trussed up like a package.'

'So I
hear.'

'Not that she
was really even a woman, from what I saw of her,' Willett
continued. 'Not much more than a slip of a girl. Didn't hardly look
old enough to be travellin' alone.'

'She's Oliver
Merridew's niece, so I'm told,' Handiwell said. 'Lost her family in
the last plague outbreak and had nowhere else to go.'

'You mean
Major Merridew, as was?' Willett said. 'Him over at Barten
Meade?'

Handiwell
nodded. 'Aye, that's him,' he said, 'though the Good Lord himself
knows Merridew can barely feed the mouths he already has there.' He
paced across to the bar counter, paused there for a few seconds and
then turned back.

'Will you be
able to drive the coach on today?' he asked.

Willett
shrugged and tried to sit upright, wincing again as he moved.
'Maybe,' he said. 'Give me an hour and a couple of long brandies,
unless you've got any laudanum in the place? Young Francis can take
the traces anyway and I'll just keep my eye on him. As long as we
goes steady, he'll be all right.'

'Then wait a
pair of hours,' Handiwell suggested. 'I'll take your place on the
box and hitch my horse behind, so I can ride back. Maybe if I go to
Portsmouth I can get some sense from the military there.' He
slapped his hands together again, frustration and anger showing
still. 'But first, I think I'll ride across to Barten Meade.

'If these
swine have taken Oliver Merridew's niece it's a fair bet they'll be
wanting a ransom, and that poor sod couldn't afford to ransom a
church mouse.'

Sarah Merridew
had passed beyond terror and into a state of shock so deep that she
now appeared to be viewing events through a veil of smoke, unable
to believe that what was happening was actually happening and
regarding herself as no more than an observer.

Her captors
had ridden for what seemed like hours, with Sarah being jolted
about even more painfully than she had been on the coach, her
breath driven from her lungs on several occasions so that, with the
foul rag stuffed in her mouth, she feared she would suffocate
inside the sacking hood.

Eventually
they halted and, after a short pause, she heard the sound of
voices, but it was several minutes before she really understood
what she was hearing. There was a new male voice, surely enough,
but now there were female voices and, as she strained to hear what
they were talking about she realised, with astonishment, that the
female voices had to belong to the four masked figures who had
waylaid the coach.

Unbelievable as it might seem, the truth was inescapable; the
four highwaymen were, in reality, highway
women!
For an instant hope surged in
Sarah's breast, but it was immediately dashed as she felt a hand
clapping across her backside again and one of the females addressed
her.

'Well, my
dainty little sweet,' the woman laughed, 'I hope you enjoy your new
life. Let's have you down so this tight-arsed swine can see the
goods he's paying for.'

Ropes were
loosened, but not those that were biting savagely into Sarah's
wrists, and more hands bundled her to the ground. Fingers tugged at
the cords that secured the sack and then the dusty hood was pulled
clear. Sarah blinked, but there was little light to startle her
eyes, for they were standing outside what appeared to be a large
barn and the only illumination was a flickering lantern held in the
hand of a youth, who stood just behind and to one side of a tall
and imposing man.

'Get that
light closer, Pip,' the dark-haired fellow instructed and the
younger male dutifully stepped forward, lifting the lamp higher as
he did so. His master - for that was clearly what the older man was
- peered into Sarah's startled face, studying her with a detached
air, before stepping back and giving a curt nod to the semi-circle
of dark-robed highwaywomen.

'Not bad,' he
drawled, 'but two guineas is a high price for an untrained wench.
We'll need to feed her whilst we break her and that all costs.'

'Two guineas
is a bargain, Adam Portfield,' one of the women snapped, 'and you
know it. Look at her, man; fair-haired, fair-skinned, pretty face
and a nice slender figure, though still with a bosom any man'd pay
well for.'

'Or woman, eh,
Jane?' Adam leered. The dark-haired first speaker drew a pistol
from her belt and levelled it at him, her aim unwavering.

'Want an extra
ball down there, Adam Portfield?' she said quietly, and the man
raised his hands, his smile fading slightly.

'Janey, you
know my humour,' he replied. 'And you know I have a fancy for you,
regardless. T'was just my little jest. I meant nothing ill of it.'
Slowly, the pistol lowered again. The woman replaced it carefully
and gave a little snort.

'That's one
fancy you'll never realise,' she said, 'and we both know it. The
man who ever takes me won't live to enjoy the feeling.'

'Aye, well,
there's a shame to it, but each to our own, eh, Janey?' Adam
lowered his hands and then raised two fingers of his right hand and
touched them to his lips. 'My loss, bonnie lass, but I'll always be
here, if ever'n you take a fancy to change your mind.'

'In your
dreams, Adam Portfield,' Jane retorted, already turning away. 'Just
take your goods and see to it that his high-and-mightyship gets our
two guineas to us quicker than he paid for the last wench, else
it'll be two guineas and a half he'll be paying. Just because we're
females he'd better not think he can take advantage of us!'