Posted by Extranjero on January 03, 2003 at 12:59:16:
DANSE SADIQUE
Martine had her mask on when she walked into the hall – but everyone else was masked as well, so nobody looked twice.
The room was fogged with candle smoke and incense. The air was tinged with perfume, sweat and sex. She sauntered through the crowd of groping couples, and felt the stolen glances as she passed. Her greatcoat hung unbuttoned, and beneath it she was only wearing boots. They were a coachman’s pair, thigh-length, the supple leather moulded to her legs. Her mask concealed her upper face, but couldn’t hide the wry smile on her lips. Her dark hair was tucked up under a scuffed three-cornered hat: she looked like she’d come straight in off the road. The scruffy coat contrasted with the peach-ripe flesh beneath. Her breasts glowed in the candlelight, as soft and amber as the harvest moon.
Lust had gripped the chateau like a fever. She felt its heat against her naked skin. The masked ball had become an orgy, drunk on power and wine. Fops with painted faces pawed at buxom serving maids, while pampered ladies fondled peasant sluts. She heard their gasps and giggles, mixed with little squeals of anguish from upstairs. Pain and pleasure teetered on a knife-edge in this house. The Marquis had made new disciples here.
She moved among them like a cat, her slim hips swaying underneath her coat. Her tits drew yearning glances from both gentlemen and ladies, but her confidence and poise kept them at bay. She sensed their eyes move downward to her puff of pubic hair. She’d never felt so bold without her drawers.
Someone laid his hand on her. She smiled and slapped him off. A flash of her green eyes discouraged him. She took a crystal glass and swilled red wine around her mouth, her sly gaze roving off around the hall. Light and shadow flickered through a maze of melting candles. A figure in the corner caught her eye.
Martine slowly licked her lips and looked away again. The other woman shifted languidly. She wore the red coat of an English soldier, unfastened to reveal her ample breasts. Her flesh was firm and creamy-pale, the rosy nipples big and round as sovereigns. The sight drew men like honeybees, but she just shrugged them off. She was wearing snowy breeches that clung tightly to her crotch, and a pair of button-up white leather boots. Blonde hair spilled like straw from underneath her cocked felt hat, and blue eyes lit the holes in her black mask.
Martine headed for the stairs, and felt those bright eyes focus on her back. After a pause, she sensed the girl rise up and follow her. She stalked on through the revellers and saw them quail before her own dark mask. Clumsy fingers groped her coat, and one man squeezed her breast. She rounded on him with a hiss and jerked her wine into his drunken face.
The stairs were thickly carpeted, ascending into shadow. Martine started up them, past the vases and the blind-eyed Roman busts. A girl came padding down towards her, doll-faced in the dimness. She wore a shapeless peasant cap, a bulging bodice and a flowing skirt. A wench from the estate, no doubt: her skin washed clean with rose-water and soap. Her pretty face was painted white, with rouged cheeks and a red heart for a mouth. It made her dark eyes cavernous, and Martine met her gaze. The squeals and laughter faded out as blood thrummed in her head.
The girl demurely dropped her gaze and tried to sidle past, but Martine’s hand slid out and grasped her arm. Those big brown eyes came up again, and Martine pouted coyly. The girl’s dark stare was like a doe’s. Her breathing grew more rapid. The front of the bodice was half-unlaced, a rose pink nipple peeping into view. Martine used her own firm breasts to push the servant back against the wall.
They kissed each other teasingly, as shameless as the revellers below. “Jesus,” the girl whispered, “who are you?” They kissed again. Martine drew up one booted leg, caressing her with leather and soft skin.
“You’re not one of my lady’s guests …” The servant stared at her. “My God,” she breathed, voice squeaky with excitement. “You’re her! The Witch’s Cat has come to us!”
Martine’s left hand cupped her breast. Her right had disappeared under her coat. She smiled conspiratorially – then thrust her body hard against the girl. The servant felt a punch and then a griping stomach pain. She gave a queasy whimper of surprise. Still smiling, Martine squeezed her tit and drove the bayonet into her belly
The weapon was a slim, steel spike: it punctured the girl’s gut with horrid ease. Her mouth gaped open, gurgling, her doll face blank with shock. Her soft breasts heaved against Martine’s. She tried to squirm, and tore herself inside. Her face screwed up with agony; she mewed, but no-one heard above the music. Then her features slackened as she slumped against Martine, the bayonet sunk deep into her flesh.
The masked girl took her weight and made it look like an embrace. She kissed the servant’s painted cheek, and briefly rubbed herself against the corpse. The pouting redcoat sauntered up to join them on the stairs. Her smile was impish underneath her mask.
“Pardon me,” she drawled in haughty English, “but might I have the honour of this dance?”
Martine gave her a gleeful glance, and heaved the body up onto her shoulder. Her slim frame had a wiry strength; she’d been a farm girl once upon a time. She turned up her nose. “How dare you, sir? The lady is with me!”
Nell just grinned and followed as she plodded up the stairs. Nell, the soldiers’ harlot, who’d been brought up as an English country lady. Martine had a name for her. She whispered it in bed. “Ma biche anglaise,” she’d croon: my English doe. Nell misheard deliberately, and loved to style herself “the English bitch.”
Another girl was waiting at the top of the stairs, her pale skin almost ghostly in the gloom. A white cat mask concealed her face, but the rest of her slim body was exposed. She still wore white silk stockings, tied with garters at the thigh, and a pair of white lace gloves – but that was all. Her eyes shone with excitement, and her neat front teeth were gnawing at her lip.
Corinne was their eager new accomplice, a wide-eyed convent girl whom they had recently seduced. Barely eighteen years of age, but elegant and shapely, with a tumbling mane of golden curls and breasts as plump as pears. She watched with girlish awe as Martine stepped onto the landing and dumped the servant’s body at her feet.
Corinne wet her lips. “My God! She recognised you, then?”
Martine gave a careless nod, and fondled her firm bottom as she passed. Corinne blushed pink and simpered bashfully. It came as no surprise to hear that Martine had been spotted - her reputation haunted the estate. The Witch’s Cat, or so the people called her. Every time she robbed a coach, the Duke’s men scoured the country - but in vain.
“Hasn’t she made her entrance yet?” asked Nell sardonically.
Corinne smiled and shook her head. “She’s still in with her maid!” Beckoning, she scurried down the passage and knelt before a blackened wooden chest. “I took these from the gun room, look,” she said over her shoulder. “The servants were all running round like chickens. No-one saw!”
Martine watched the lid come up and grinned like a delighted little girl. The chest was full of blankets, but a dozen pistols nestled in the folds. She squeezed Corinne’s bare shoulder and leaned forward, her breasts suspended ripely as she sorted through the guns. Corinne gave them a sidelong glance and felt her mouth go dry. She caught a musky whiff of Martine’s flesh.
“I brought a musket too,” she said. “I thought it might be useful ...” The gun lay on the floor behind the chest. Bending down, Nell lifted it and gasped excitedly. The weapon was a volleygun, with seven clustered barrels. She hefted it and gauged its weight, a smug smile on her lips. Corinne glowed with pride at her good choice.
Martine picked up a double-barrelled pistol; the right-hand lock clicked back under her thumb. She chose a second gun as well, a handsome duelling piece. Her breathing quickened as she weighed the weapons, her breasts pulsating, nipples growing hard. Corinne watched her, open-mouthed, and felt the tenderness of her own tits.
Nell ran her tongue around her lips, and chose a pair of pistols for herself. One was plain, a navy gun: she slid it down the front of her tight breeches. The other was inlaid with gold. She cocked it casually in her left hand. The clack made Corinne turn her head. The English girl’s bare breasts were just as tempting.
She ogled them, still kneeling. Martine toed her in the ribs. “Take your pick as well,” she said. “The more the merrier!” Blushing, Corinne took a heavy pistol in each hand. She stood up with the older girls and listened to the thudding of her heart.
“Ladies: shall we dance?” said Martine dryly.
They set off down the passageway, their faces doll-stiff underneath their masks. The carpet muffled Martine’s boots and Corinne’s satin slippers. The wall lamps flickered briefly as they passed. Nell walked with the bulky musket braced against her hip, the gilded pistol poised in her free hand. The echoes from the ballroom sounded half a world away as they stopped outside the Duchess’s bedchamber.
Martine raised her booted leg and kicked the doors wide open. The three of them swept through with pistols aimed. Corinne’s eyes grew wider at the sight that greeted them, but Martine and Nell took up their stance, unfazed. A draught crept up Corinne’s bare back; she squirmed and nudged the doors closed with her rump. She couldn’t take her shocked eyes off the figures by the bed.
The Duchess was still busy with her maid, that much was clear. The servant girl stood naked at the foot of the four-poster, her arms thrown wide as if in ecstasy. Her wrists were lashed securely to the bedposts, and a silk scarf had been knotted round her eyes. Her head turned blindly as she heard the newcomers barge in. The ladies who’d been toying with her stiffened in alarm.
The Duchess Josephine was in her forties, but she had the shapely body of a woman half her age. She hadn’t finished dressing, so there wasn’t room for doubt - her breasts were bare and splendid as she turned. She wore white hose of skin-tight silk, a scarlet feather boa, and nothing else. A handsome woman, certainly; but arrogance had soured her fine-boned face. Her powdered hair was piled up on her head like sculpted cream. Her blue eyes were as cold as winter frost.
She still looked youthful next to her companion, who really was a woman half her age. A sulky-faced young lady with brown eyes and long blonde hair. Corinne took in the dimpled cheeks and pouting, bee-stung lips. Before she could enjoy the rest, the girl had snatched a pillow from the bed, pressing it against herself to hide her nudity. Corinne knew it was Jacqueline, the Duchess’s spoilt daughter. She had her mother’s snootiness as well as her large breasts. One boob was still peeking out, unnoticed as she glared at the intruders.
“Good evening, Ladies,” Martine purred. “The Revolution sent us on ahead.”
The Duchess curled her painted lip and turned towards her daughter. “A likely story, eh, Jacquette? That rabble in the north will soon be crushed. These three are just guttersnipes who fancy they can walk off with our wealth.”
“Not all of it, my Lady: just your diamonds,” Martine said. She stalked across the chamber, swinging her hips as if to flaunt her muff. She saw what the two women had been using on the maid. Jacqueline had dropped a peacock feather on the carpet, while the Duchess held a hatpin in one hand. Between them they had pricked and teased the servant’s tender flesh. The young girl had a gypsy look, with honey-coloured skin and chestnut curls. She turned her head, unseeing, as she heard Martine approach. Her skin was lightly filmed with sweat. Martine sensed she’d been warming to the game.
She slid her left-hand gun into her pocket, and stooped to pick the peacock feather up. Jacqueline shrank back against the wall. The Duchess waited haughtily, too proud to cover up. Behind her, Nell was lounging in the corner, but her gleaming eyes belied her lazy posture. Corinne kept her pistols aimed. They trembled very slightly with the strain.
Martine use the feather to caress the servant’s breasts. The bound girl twitched, uneasily aroused.
“I know you,” said the Duchess. “You’re the one the peasants call the Witch’s Cat.”
Martine pulled her mask down so it hung around her throat. Without it she looked startlingly young. Her face was fresh and pixieish, contrasting with her sensual physique. Her witchy green eyes glittered as she stared the Duchess down.
The older woman glanced at Nell and Corinne. ”I see you’ve brought your whores with you. An English vixen and a preening bitch.”
The redcoat straightened up and stuck her tits out. “You want to suck on these?” she asked. “Or would you rather get your lips round this?”
The Duchess eyed the volleygun and looked away again. Martine smiled and nodded at Corinne. “Let’s get to work.”
The girl put down her pair of guns, still smarting from the Duchess’s remark. She started to go through the dressing table drawers. Martine trailed the feather down the servant’s slender belly, and flicked it idly through her pubic hair.
“You’ll never leave this house alive,” the Duchess sneered at her.
Martine gave the daughter a mock sympathetic look. “Mothers. Don’t they think they know it all?”
Jacqueline scowled back at her with hatred and disdain, still hugging the soft pillow to her breasts.
“My husband has secured this place,” the Duchess went on grimly. “As soon as we heard rumours of this so-called revolution, he gave a gun to every man we have. Lay a hand on us, and you’ll have them to reckon with ...”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, look at these!” Corinne exclaimed. She was opening flat boxes lined with velvet. Diamond necklaces spilled out. Tiaras sparkled in the candlelight. The jewels of Duchess Josephine were famed for miles around, a rich array of pearls and precious stones. Nell laid her volleygun aside, and took a winking bauble in her fingers. The diamonds on the dressing table shone like frosty stars. Corinne looked round gleefully. Martine just licked her lips.
“… And if you have the misfortune to get past them, you’ll discover what stands guard outside the house!” The Duchess glowered at the girls. Her tone was pitying. “The Duke brought more than gold back when he returned from the New World.”
“Pipe-weed and potatoes too?” said Martine mockingly. She watched as Nell began to fill her pockets. Corinne had no pockets so she’d put on a tiara and was fastening a necklace round her throat.
“There’s no escape from here,” the Duchess told them. “The best that you can hope for is to hang like common thieves.”
“I’d hope for that, all right,” said Nell behind her. She crossed the room, a smug look on her face. The Duchess sniffed and turned her back. She stiffened as the redcoat touched her shoulder.
“I’ll wager that you’ve never seen a hanging,” whispered Nell. “The truth is, as your throat is squeezed, the pleasure is like nothing you could dream of. I’ve seen men’s cocks go stiff while they’re still kicking. And as for what a lady feels … Let’s see.”
She snatched the older woman’s feather boa, then looped it round her neck and jerked it tight. The Duchess made a croaking sound, her blue eyes wide with shock. One hand scrabbled at her throat, the other reaching back to claw at Nell – but the English girl was braced behind her, tightening the knot with all her strength.
Her daughter’s eyes were just as wide. Her breasts swelled as she sucked in air to scream. Martine shoved her gun into the pillow that she held and squeezed the trigger back implacably. The powder sizzled in the pan, and Jacqueline’s last breath caught in her throat. Then the pistol discharged with a muffled, brutal thud. The daughter jerked and grunted as the ball drove into her. She lurched as smoke and feathers filled the air. The ruptured pillow fell away, revealing the neat hole between her breasts. She gawped at Martine woefully, then let her eyes roll up into her head. The punch of searing lead had briefly cauterised the wound, but as she slithered to the floor, the blood came spurting out. It spattered her plump tits as she subsided. Martine moaned softly, thrilled by what she’d done.
The Duchess squirmed despairingly, but didn’t have a prayer. Her flesh was soft with privilege, while Nell’s strength came from catfights and rough sex. The redcoat grinned with gritted teeth and strangled the posh bitch. The Duchess thrust her tongue out as her rosy nipples tightened fit to burst. The last thing that she felt were Nell’s firm breasts against her back, the tips aroused and stiffening like studs.
The Duchess gurgled feebly and went limp in Nell’s embrace. Her breasts sagged and her arms fell to her sides. Martine watched her, mesmerised, and felt a rush of heat into her groin. The Duchess goggled back, her tongue protruding. Her blue eyes didn’t blink as she was lowered to the rug. Nell straightened, panting hoarsely, her tits flushed pink with pleasure at the deed.
Corinne looked on in horror and excitement. She’d never seen a person killed before. The thrill of it was giddier than Cognac, and she sighed. Her bosom heaved beneath the diamond necklace. Nell turned to her and stroked her breasts and kissed her on the mouth. Corinne almost died herself. She closed her eyes in bliss.
“All right,” said Martine breathlessly, “let’s move our arses, girls.”
The maid was stiff with terror, muscles straining in her arms. A blizzard of singed feathers fluttered round her. Martine laid her smoking gun against the girl’s flat stomach, and watched the heated metal make her flinch.
“Real pleasure: real pain. You understand that now?”
Before the maid could answer, someone knocked on the door. Everybody froze into a tableau. Then the servant gave a sob, and Martine clapped a hand over her mouth. The silence that followed throbbed with expectation.
“Pardon me, my Lady … but is anything amiss?”
A man’s voice, sounding ill at ease. Martine caught Corinne’s eye and cleared her throat. “We do not wish to be disturbed,” she answered in a crisp, falsetto tone.
Another pause. Corinne squirmed with discomfort. Then the valet made his choice and barged in through the door. Martine swung her pistol up and pulled the second trigger. The shot blew a dark hole in the man’s forehead.
“I said we didn’t want to be disturbed, pig!”
The valet stumbled backwards with his wig over one eye. He went down in the passage, but the dry crack of the shot rang through the house. Galvanised, Corinne and Nell grasped handfuls of the jewels. Martine dropped the empty gun and drew her duelling piece. She poked the gun into the servant’s navel, and breathed into the blindfolded girl’s face.
“Here’s something to sob about, you snotty little wench!”
She levered back the pistol’s lock and felt the servant quiver. Martine kept her teetering, then grinned and backed away. The servant slumped against her bonds, breath rasping with relief. And Martine shot her through the bellybutton.
The servant squawked in agony and tried to double up, but her wrists were bound too tightly to the bedposts. She writhed and drew one knee up, but the pain went unrelieved. It sizzled in her bowels, till she shuddered and went slack. Her body slumped head downward, firm breasts dangling, arms still spread.
Nell picked up her volleygun and moved towards the door. Corinne snatched up her pistols eagerly. The Duchess’s tiara gleamed above her white cat mask, and diamond droplets glittered in her cleavage.
“Get back to the staircase,” Martine told her. “A couple of shots’ll make them keep their heads down.” Corinne nodded, serious now, and scurried from the room. Martine stared after her – then winked at Nell.
She pocketed the last fistful of gems and spread her coat. Two holsters had been stitched into the lining. Drawing the matched pistols, she went out into the passage and set off in the opposite direction. Nell followed her without a backward glance.
Corinne had reached the landing and crouched nervously behind the newel post. Her heart was drubbing in her chest. She felt a little sick. But Martine had trusted her with this. It showed that she belonged.
A group of men in livery were coming up the stairs. Some were armed with pistols, some with muskets. They must have heard the shot - or maybe somebody had found the first maid’s body. Corinne waited, biting at her lip, until they saw her. Then she raised her right-hand gun and shot the leading servant in the chest.
The kick of the pistol startled her. The gust of smoke brought tears to her eyes. But she’d hit the target right enough: a red splotch marked the falling valet’s waistcoat. The other servants scuttled back. She smiled excitedly. But then they started shooting up at her.
One ball chipped the newel post. Another tore a strip out of the carpet. Corinne cringed and started to switch pistols. Muskets cracked like breaking sticks and spurts of smoke came boiling up the stairs. Something sizzled past her cheek. And then she felt a hard kick in the stomach.
Corinne gave a startled bleat and clutched the banister. A burning lump was lodged inside her belly, like a hot potato swallowed in one go. Whimpering, she tried to raise her pistol. A ball thwacked into her right breast, and pierced it like a pellet through a plum. Corinne gasped, then mewled with pain, her gloved hands clutching vainly at her tits. A surge of anguish choked her and then everything was calm. She knelt there for a moment at the top of the stairs, oblivious to the shots still whizzing past her. Her mind flashed to the convent and the dull religious life that she had left. Holy boredom given up for sex and diamonds, pain and looming darkness. Oh God, what will the Sisters say? she thought with sudden panic. Then she closed her eyes and flopped face-down onto the staircase, her slim arms dangling as she came to rest.
The shooting petered out as men came creeping up the stairs. Someone put his fist into her hair and hauled her head up. Corinne’s face was blank, her bosom bloody. Satisfied, he let her slump again. The valets came on past her corpse and filed along the passageway beyond.
Martine and Nell were well ahead. They fled like wraiths down lamp-lit corridors. People were still rutting in the chambers that they passed, but no-one sensed the killers in their midst. They reached another stairwell on the far side of the house, and found more servants coming up towards them. Some still wore the golden masks that matched their livery, and all of them were toting firearms.
Martine and the leading valet met on the top step. Her right-hand pistol blasted through his chest at point blank range. The impact sent him flailing back into the men behind him, his bulging eyes still fixed on Martine’s breasts. She threw the empty gun aside and scooped his pistol up, descending as the servants fought for balance. Her left-hand gun discharged into the next man’s frantic face, and spattered lace and lamé with bright gore. He spun away and Martine kept on coming. Her borrowed pistol thundered and the man behind him died, his loose collapse impeding his companions. Martine swooped and snatched his gun to blow a fourth man’s head off. The valets were recoiling from her lethal onslaught now, but the staircase left them no room for manoeuvre. She grabbed another pistol as it thudded at her feet, and fired it through the next man in her way.
Someone aimed a musket from the bottom of the stairs. Nell leaned out behind Martine and fired her gilded pistol, dropping the hapless servant where he stood. The staircase was now wreathed with smoke, its paintings splashed with curving sprays of blood. Martine strode down it, tits thrust out, her face a vulpine snarl. Dying men stared blankly at the dewy, ruffled rosebud of her sex.
She picked the next gun up and shot a man between the eyeholes of his mask. He brought two other servants down like skittles as he fell. Nell hauled out her second pistol, firing at a gunman in the hallway. He staggered and spat blood, but there were other figures cowering behind him. Dropping the spent pistol, she brought up the volleygun, still prowling down the stairs in Martine’s wake.
A fallen valet lay in abject terror. Martine just sneered, stepped over him and shot the last man standing on the stairs. He crumpled loosely back into the angle of the wall, relinquishing his unfired blunderbuss. She lunged and caught it, springing like a cat into the hall. A group of white-faced revellers stood gawping back at her. They’d milled out here in panic, and the carnage on the staircase had transfixed them. She wondered if their ashen cheeks were due to shock or makeup.
A valet stood among them and she saw his gun come up. Nell had seen it too and fired her multi-barrelled musket from the shoulder. The central chamber discharged first, and then the other six with a great whump. The recoil made Nell stagger, and the lead balls sprayed the group. Martine brought up the blunderbuss and fired a second later. The weapon’s charge exploded with a roar.
The revellers were riddled - blown away like dirty washing on the wind. A pert young lady screamed as grapeshot punctured the soft cushions of her breasts. A maid from the East Indies grasped her belly and slid down with gritted teeth. Dense white fog rolled through the hall, congealing like sour milk. Smuts of powder floated in it. Something stung Nell’s cheek beneath her mask.
She flailed into the choking blanket, squinting through the fumes. “Martine?” she hissed. Her lover didn’t answer. Groping round, she found a fallen gun and picked it up. Martine hadn’t stopped moving, but which way had she gone now?
Nell listened, but her ears were ringing shrilly. She heard a muffled noise as someone blundered through the murk. Suddenly uneasy, she drew back into the fog. A doorway opened to her left. She sidestepped quickly through it. The room beyond was dimly lit by rows of candles set on iron spikes. Gilded statues watched her from the shadows; she caught a whiff of incense through the stink of powder smoke. Even this debauched household had made a space for God. She’d stepped into the Duke’s own private chapel.
Clothing rustled over by the altar and she whirled. A slender girl was kneeling at the rail, head bowed in prayer. Her frantic whispers quivered in the stillness. Then she sensed the newcomer and squirmed around to look. A sinner right enough, Nell thought – still wearing a black mask and low-cut bodice. No older than Corinne, but with a gorgeous pair of tits.
The girl crossed herself instinctively, her fingers touching forehead, midriff, breasts. Nell’s response was just as automatic: she shot the frightened minx between the eyes. The ball punched a neat red hole in her pale forehead; the girl reared back against the rail, her ample bosom almost bulging free. She gaped towards the ceiling for a moment. Then the hole became a blob that spilled across her cheek as she collapsed.
Nell realised she’d just trapped herself. She looked around for somewhere to reload. A confessional stood brooding in one corner. She ducked inside the box and pulled the velvet curtains closed. The gloom was claustrophobic, like a coffin. The seat felt hard as stone beneath her arse. Swallowing her sobs for breath, she fumbled in her pocket. A dozen paper cartridges were mixed up with the jewels. She bit the end off one and poured a measure down the barrel, her breasts pulsating as her panic rose. Now the ball … Get in, you bitch … Some powder for the pan ... Her heart throbbed in her ears so that she never heard the footfalls, but then the curtain opened with a rasp. Nell jumped like a startled deer and stared in horror at the man who stood there. He was dressed up like a dandy, but he had a naked rapier in his hand.
Before she could begin to wail, he thrust the gleaming point into her body. It pierced the inner arc of her left breast and punctured it. Nell felt a fierce stinging, then a pressure on her lung that made her choke. The icy blade sank deep into her pampered English breast, and suddenly her chest was full of fire. She screamed at him despairingly and tried to fend him off, but he just thrust his rapier to the hilt. It skewered her and drove into the wood behind her back. Nell squirmed, sticking out her tits, and shrieked into the darkness of the box. The man kept up the pressure till her voice cracked and she sobbed. Contractions racked her body and he felt them throbbing up the buried blade. The redcoat snivelled miserably and slumped back in her seat. For a moment she remembered being Elizabeth again – the wayward daughter of a country squire. Then her last breath gurgled in her throat and Nell was still. Her firm breasts sank and didn’t rise again.
The dandy placed his shoe against her belly. It took him all his strength to drag the bloody rapier from her creamy flesh.
Martine heard the screams and stopped. A queasy spasm of horror gripped her stomach. She swung around to listen in the unlit scullery, but the way she’d come was shadowy and silent. Sudden dread embraced her like the cold arms of a ghost. It brushed her breasts and chilled them, raising goosebumps on the big pink areolas. Panting, Martine backed away – then turned and hurried onward through the house.
The gloom was growing watery. She realised that the night was almost over. Rosy light was seeping round the drapes in the next room. She peered between them cautiously and saw the chateau gardens, spread out beneath a pallid pre-dawn sky. The French doors were unlocked; she eased them open and stepped out. She had one pistol left, and kept it raised as she looked round. The air was fresh and sweet with dew, a respite from the stench she’d left behind her. Birds were singing in the woods, but otherwise the gardens lay in silence.
What was it that bitch had said? You’ll discover what stands guard outside the house …
Martine scanned the rosebushes, her jerky breaths still catching in her throat. Her finger teased the trigger … but the grounds seemed quite deserted. The house, meanwhile, was getting ever noisier behind her. Screams had given way to shouts of incoherent rage. She patted her pocketful of gems and began to cross the terrace to the steps.
Something rustled faintly in the bushes to her left. Martine glanced round nervously, and something plunged towards her like a dog. It came in human shape but there were feathers in its hair and a sheen like oiled copper to its skin. She jerked her pistol round and up, her muscles freezing as the creature screamed. A white stripe marked its hawkish face; she gawped at it in fright – and pulled the trigger. The pistol flamed at point blank range. The savage crumpled up and tumbled past her.
Martine skittered round, her heartbeat surging. So this was what the Duke had brought back with him from New France! Naked savages to guard the grounds of his estate. She gripped her empty pistol as if sheer force of will could keep it firing. Above the pounding in her ears, she heard twigs crackling in the topiary. And then a rapid whirring, like a flock of startled birds.
She barely glimpsed the arrow, but she heard its juicy thwack. A nauseous numbness gripped her abdomen. She gagged and stumbled back against the ivy-covered wall. The shaft was buried deep between her ribs on the left side. Even as she sobbed with shock, a second arrow drove through her flat stomach. The impact was as brutal as a punch, but sank far deeper. Martine groaned and dropped her gun, one booted leg drawn up convulsively.
Birdsong filled the breathless pause that followed. The world was waking up around her, close enough to smell. She clasped her tender belly and it filled with scalding pain. Martine mewled through gritted teeth. The whirring came again. An arrow punctured her left breast and made her squeal with woe. Before she could begin to squirm, her right breast stopped the next; the point bit through the pink disc of her nipple. Martine gave a girlish wail and writhed against the wall, her frantic fingers clawing at her tits. Then a fifth shot struck her in the chest and pierced her heart. She shuddered as its energy kicked through her, her mouth an O of mortified dismay. The pain flared up and flooded her, then dwindled to an ache between her tits. The doomed girl sighed and let the darkness take her. She drooped and slithered down the wall, legs splaying as she slumped. Her head fell sideways, green eyes closed, her features strangely vulnerable in death. So much for the Witch’s Cat who’d been the Duke’s tormentor. Martine Françoise Marie was twenty-one.
The archers left the bushes and came forward, their painted faces pitiless as masks. They gazed down at the sprawling girl, admiring her voluptuous young body. A string of pearls had spilled out of the pocket of her coat. One of the Indians picked it up and ran it through his fingers – then shrugged, and let it fall beside her corpse.