Devil's Dream - Madison Smartt Bell [48]
You aint giving me no chance to, Forrest groaned, and that was true. Still holding him where it counted with one hand, she wriggled free of the rest of her clothing and threaded him into her, bucked once and rolled toward him, pressing his back into the sagging web and the blankets. Her heavy lips lowered to cushion his thin ones, the quick tongue darting, while both his spurs went rattling on the floorboards. Now he could hear cannon fire from Fort Pickering, and he thought how vastly his men were outnumbered here, how they’d need to get out right quick once the Yankees got organized, and that thought too helped him to hold on where he was, as her rolling thighs and rasping tongue were rising to the crux. He got purchase with one of his boots on the floor so he could turn the two of them as one and now was driving deep into the sag of the rope bed as both her legs rose up to wrap around his back and bring him tighter in—Oh Catharine, he breathed out then, but she only pressed her mouth against his bearded throat, and got her hand on his tail-tuft again to bring him even nearer. He remembered the fox, that afternoon, watching them from out of the cane, its remote composure, a vixen maybe, as if he were now buried to his hilt in her rough red brush, and like a vixen she caught the skin of his shoulder between the points of her teeth and clenched there, stopping her voice, for she never cried out at the very moment, there was only the rush of her breath and the clench and release of her every muscle, as his hot milk burst into her molasses.
Small arms fire came nearer now, circling in several minor skirmishes. Forrest heard King Philip snort and whinny and fight the reins his small minder held. He sat up, fumbling with the fastenings of his garments. She had one hand on his shoulder still, not to hold him back but to urge him on. He stood up feeling for his pistols—one had come loose in the bed and she handed it to him with a sly smile, grip forward. More children were giggling somewhere, over the sill of the inner door or maybe just outside. Forrest would have liked to glimpse them in good light if there was time for it. King Philip snorted, tried to rear—he needed no rider to go to a battle. Thomas paid out a length of rein, savvy enough not to let the big horse break it. Forrest laid a hand on his head as he took the reins back, the bone warm and solid through the cropped curls, white eyes looking up at him. Catharine still wore a warm satisfied smile as she smoothed her kerchief back over her head. She stood embracing the doorpost warmly as he remounted his horse.
“Glad to have you, Ginnal Forrest. Stay longer when you come next time.”
JESSE FORREST came thundering back down from Union Street to the Gayoso, chivying along a handful of Washburn’s staff he had made prisoner. His men broke into any stable they passed and brought along whatever horses they could find. Women were still leaning out the windows in their nightdresses to cheer the raiders, or coming down to the street to run after them.
“No time to tarry!” Jesse called, squinting back over his shoulder at the brightening sky. Half an order, half a recommendation. Bill Forrest was rallying the Forty Thieves in front of the Gayoso. From the direction of Fort Pickering, a cannon thumped.
“Where’s Washburn, Brother,” Bill said.
“He run off.” Jesse held up the uniform.
“Well, that’s purty.” Bill turned his head and spat into the muddy street. “Much good it’ll do us.”
“You got Hurlbut, I guess.”
“I damn well did not.