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Authors: Susanna Fraser
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had ignited. That must be why he had stopped and pushed her away. Her cursed immodest enthusiasm must have given him a disgust of her.
Maybe Sebastian had been right about her. There in Sergeant Atkins’s arms, she had wished everyone else in the camp to Hades if only they could be alone to keep touching, keep kissing and let the inevitable happen. Surely such longings were the mark of a wanton.
She stirred restlessly. How could she sleep when all she could think of was that kiss?
She lifted her hand to her lips. Still they felt strange—swollen and tingling. She remembered the way he had slid his tongue across them just before she opened her mouth under his, so thirsty and eager to drink him in. Almost without conscious thought, she ran her hand down her body, skimming across her breasts and belly, to settle between her thighs.
There she halted for a moment, her hand still. Two years. Two years it had been since she had felt the slightest urge to do…this. During her girlhood she had discovered, quite by accident, that touching herself in certain places and certain ways caused delightful sensations. She had never spoken of it to anyone, but eventually she had connected that pleasure with her aunt’s hints about the marriage bed. She had been eager for her wedding night because she was certain it had to feel all the more exquisite when it wasn’t a solitary act.
But Sebastian had despised her passion. With him she had known first pain, then a dreary endurance and determination to do her duty. Before she had been married a month, she had lost all her hunger for the pleasures of the flesh. Yet now those desires were coming back to life.
She hadn’t known a kiss could feel like that, so rough and urgent. What if they hadn’t stopped—if he hadn’t stopped? How would it feel to join out of passion instead of grim duty on one side, stubborn determination to father heirs on the other? How would it feel with him? What would it be like to act the wanton in truth? Slowly, carefully—she couldn’t thrash, couldn’t make a sound—she caressed her body and imagined the hands were his until at last she brought herself a measure of release and fell into a half-sated sleep.
***
The next morning they prepared to march while dawn was but a faint hope of light. As teamsters hitched their oxen and soldiers bustled about, Anna waited by a wagon, conversing politely with one of the wounded, an artillery lieutenant she had met several months ago in winter quarters.
Footsteps approached behind her, a tread already familiar. “Mrs. Arrington, ma’am?”
Never before had she heard Sergeant Atkins sound so tentative. She turned to face him, straightening her bonnet and smoothing her dress. “Yes, Sergeant?”
“May I have a word with you, if you please?”
“Of course.” She swallowed and forced a smile. “Lieutenant Ellis, if you’ll excuse me.”
He smiled back, inoffensively flirtatious. “As long as you promise to visit me again soon.”
She agreed and followed Sergeant Atkins to the edge of the rough road. They were in plain sight of the hurrying soldiers, teamsters and orderlies, but in the dim light and bustle of preparation, they were inconspicuous.
For a moment they surveyed each other in strained silence. There was something different about him. It puzzled her briefly, but then she realized it was his uniform. She’d never seen him look so correct before. His green jacket was buttoned all the way up to his throat where his black stock was neatly fastened. That distracting saber scar of his, which last night she had imagined tracing with her tongue, was hidden. No bare head or jaunty foraging cap today; instead he wore his tall shako. Even his shoes looked as though he’d given them a polish, and his red-and-black sash—like his stripes, a mark of his rank—was carefully knotted and settled just above his lean hips with geometric precision. A lump formed in her throat. He looked like a model for a toy
Maybe Sebastian had been right about her. There in Sergeant Atkins’s arms, she had wished everyone else in the camp to Hades if only they could be alone to keep touching, keep kissing and let the inevitable happen. Surely such longings were the mark of a wanton.
She stirred restlessly. How could she sleep when all she could think of was that kiss?
She lifted her hand to her lips. Still they felt strange—swollen and tingling. She remembered the way he had slid his tongue across them just before she opened her mouth under his, so thirsty and eager to drink him in. Almost without conscious thought, she ran her hand down her body, skimming across her breasts and belly, to settle between her thighs.
There she halted for a moment, her hand still. Two years. Two years it had been since she had felt the slightest urge to do…this. During her girlhood she had discovered, quite by accident, that touching herself in certain places and certain ways caused delightful sensations. She had never spoken of it to anyone, but eventually she had connected that pleasure with her aunt’s hints about the marriage bed. She had been eager for her wedding night because she was certain it had to feel all the more exquisite when it wasn’t a solitary act.
But Sebastian had despised her passion. With him she had known first pain, then a dreary endurance and determination to do her duty. Before she had been married a month, she had lost all her hunger for the pleasures of the flesh. Yet now those desires were coming back to life.
She hadn’t known a kiss could feel like that, so rough and urgent. What if they hadn’t stopped—if he hadn’t stopped? How would it feel to join out of passion instead of grim duty on one side, stubborn determination to father heirs on the other? How would it feel with him? What would it be like to act the wanton in truth? Slowly, carefully—she couldn’t thrash, couldn’t make a sound—she caressed her body and imagined the hands were his until at last she brought herself a measure of release and fell into a half-sated sleep.
***
The next morning they prepared to march while dawn was but a faint hope of light. As teamsters hitched their oxen and soldiers bustled about, Anna waited by a wagon, conversing politely with one of the wounded, an artillery lieutenant she had met several months ago in winter quarters.
Footsteps approached behind her, a tread already familiar. “Mrs. Arrington, ma’am?”
Never before had she heard Sergeant Atkins sound so tentative. She turned to face him, straightening her bonnet and smoothing her dress. “Yes, Sergeant?”
“May I have a word with you, if you please?”
“Of course.” She swallowed and forced a smile. “Lieutenant Ellis, if you’ll excuse me.”
He smiled back, inoffensively flirtatious. “As long as you promise to visit me again soon.”
She agreed and followed Sergeant Atkins to the edge of the rough road. They were in plain sight of the hurrying soldiers, teamsters and orderlies, but in the dim light and bustle of preparation, they were inconspicuous.
For a moment they surveyed each other in strained silence. There was something different about him. It puzzled her briefly, but then she realized it was his uniform. She’d never seen him look so correct before. His green jacket was buttoned all the way up to his throat where his black stock was neatly fastened. That distracting saber scar of his, which last night she had imagined tracing with her tongue, was hidden. No bare head or jaunty foraging cap today; instead he wore his tall shako. Even his shoes looked as though he’d given them a polish, and his red-and-black sash—like his stripes, a mark of his rank—was carefully knotted and settled just above his lean hips with geometric precision. A lump formed in her throat. He looked like a model for a toy
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