A Letter of Mary - Laurie R. King [66]
He did it cleverly, I'll give him that. I stood up to retrieve some files on the other end of the desk, and when I turned back, he was there, his arms clamped around me and his mouth seeking mine.
I do not know why I reacted so violently. I was in no real danger— I could have laid him out in three simple moves, or broken his neck in four, for that matter. I reacted in part because I was so immersed in the rôle of Miss Small, and even in 1923, few women would fail to react strongly to such an affront. Mostly, however, it was my sheer frustration and rage at the entire situation that erupted. I could feel the urge for his neck in my hands for one brief instant before sanity clamped down, and I considered what to do while dodging his reechy kisses.
The real danger was not to me and any honour I might possess, but to my rôle. If I were to overwhelm him physically, my time in the Edwards home would come to a sudden end. Mary Small would probably just scream, but aside from the fact that it was difficult to do with his mouth in the way, it would only delay the problem, not solve it. And, there was my pride. I wanted to hurt the slimy creature, but even a quick knee jerk would be out of character. Any injury must be bad enough to stop him, light enough to keep me from losing my position, and must appear completely accidental. All this reflection took about three seconds of grappling, and then my body assumed command.
I stumbled backwards half a step to put him off balance, with a twist, so he was forced to take a single step (my boy, your breath is foul!), and then leant away— all of them natural movements. I then rose slightly, twisted my head away from him, made certain of my balance and his full preoccupation, and finally swung one heel around hard to knock his feet out from under him while simultaneously giving a sudden stumbling lurch with all my weight behind me, my hip aimed at the sharp corner of the immovable oak desk just behind him. The high and satisfying scream that tore through the room did not come from my throat, and I stepped back to let him sink stiffly to the floor. He was not breathing. He looked quite green. I began to fluster about him before his knees hit the carpet.
The door burst open and Colonel Edwards was there, hair awry and pulling on his coat. I turned as he came in.
"Oh, sir, I'm so sorry. I don't know—"
"What in God's name is going on? Was that you I heard, or— Gerry? What the devil's wrong with him?"
As dear Gerry was somewhat preoccupied with curling into a tight knot and wheezing into a semiconscious state, I took it upon myself to answer, albeit quite incoherently.
"Oh, Colonel, I don't know. I just— he was— I fell, you see, and I must have hit his stomach or maybe the desk hit his back, and oh, shouldn't we call a doctor? He looks like he's having a fit; maybe he's dying." A tortured gasp followed by a deep groan told us that he had finally regained his breath. The colonel knelt beside him, saw no signs of blood, and stood up with narrowed eyes. He looked hard at me, took in the disarray of my hair and blouse, including a popped button, and started to smile grimly.
"I told him he'd get into trouble one of these days if he didn't keep his hands to himself. Wouldn't have thought it'd be you who gave it to him, but you never know."
"Gave it— But sir, I didn't mean to do anything. I just caught my heel on the carpet and tripped. Shouldn't we ring for a doctor?"
"Doctor couldn't help any. He'll get over it. It's nothing most men don't have happen sometime or another. Ice and a whisky should take care of it."
"But what—" I stopped. A complete innocence of male anatomical characteristics was surely not to be expected. "You mean I— oh dear. The poor boy." I knelt down, and Gerald,