Imprudence (The Custard Protocol #2)(61)

“Hear hear!” said a few voices at that.

Rue continued, smiling her approval. “Thank you all for your defensive work. I hope it goes without saying that hazard pay will be forthcoming.”

As usual with that statement, a rousing cheer went up. The decklings began their Custard Doom war chant.

Primrose said to Rue, under cover of the noise, “You might also consider a small complement of militia. I know we aren’t a military ship, but this is getting absurd. And, frankly, expensive in hazard pay.”

“I’ll think about it.” Rue raised her voice. “Bedtime, the rest of you.” She gestured roundly to the assembled nondeck crew.

Another more half-hearted cheer met that and the defenders dispersed, feeling victorious.





Rue would not have been surprised if Paw posted a guard at her door. However, Quesnel let himself in after only an hour with no impediment. Paw either hadn’t set a watch or Mother had interfered.

“You made it.” Rue let the pleasure colour her voice, still euphoric after their battle.

Quesnel tossed his hat to one corner of the room and charged over, scooping her up like some Lothario from a novel.

“Stop it, you ridiculous creature. You’ll strain something.”

He dropped her onto the bed and she bounced.

“Rue, my deadly darling, I worship that dress.”

“I thought you might. Sometime we must talk about what I’d like to see you wearing.”

“Oh yes?” He began unwrapping his cravat and removing his jacket at the same time. It was not particularly dexterous – he got the long tail of the first caught in the sleeve of the second.

“I was ruminating on your leather apron.”

Quesnel was momentarily arrested by confusion. “Oh, indeed?”

“You know, the one you wear to work the boilers, all smudged and such.”

“Yes?”

“And nothing else.”

Quesnel blushed cherry red and, having nothing much to say in response, tried to extract himself from cravat and jacket, only to get more muddled.

Rue tsked. “Allow me?” She began to detangle him with no little delight. “Did you lock the door behind you?”

“Of course. Wait. Why, do you think it necessary?”

“My father is suspicious.” She removed his outerwear.

Quesnel paused. “Could we not discuss him, perhaps? A most uncomfortable topic.”

Rue grinned and leaned back in the bed, pushing to make her chest press against the outrageously revealing bodice. It seemed to be sufficiently distracting because he pounced on her with a murmur of French.

There was a goodly amount of kissing at that juncture, now daily established as popular with both of them, and then some fumbling while Rue got him out of the rest of his clothing, albeit with greater skill than he had yet displayed.

He rubbed up against the satin of her skirts with a purr of approval and did a deal of petting and stroking all over as if trying to memorise the shape of her body beneath its smooth texture.

Eventually, he began to attack the buttons down the front of the velvet bodice.

“I thought you liked this gown.”

“Rather too much, which is why it is now time for it to come off.”

Come off it did, and Rue’s silk combination. They were both bare but for foolish smiles and rosy cheeks.

Quesnel took great care with her, as if he had ever taken anything less. In fact, he was almost inexcusably gentle. To the point where Rue resorted to frustrated wiggling to get him to move faster.

“I won’t break, I promise.”

“I’ve never actually done this before,” he admitted.

At Rue’s expression of extreme doubt, he corrected any assumption as to his lack of prowess. “I mean to say, I’ve never done this with an unsullied lady. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Rue pulled away and took his face in both her hands. “Dear boy, I change shape regularly. There is nothing more painful than shift.”

He looked miserable. “It’s still not exactly fun for me to know I will cause you suffering.”

Rue, in the end, rolled her eyes, flipped him over, and took matters into her own hands… so to speak.

It did indeed hurt, but as she had said, not nearly so much as changing shape. After a bit, it was decidedly fun, and Quesnel was perfectly sweet. Having established that she was enjoying herself – she had to nibble his neck to convince him – Quesnel gave over sweet for fierce and intent, his violet eyes dilated. He made sure she was coasting those marvellous waves of joy before he let himself go at all. Rue loved the way his face twisted, almost wolflike, and that he was careful all the way to the end. Ensuring her satiation before taking his own and pulling out so as to minimise any chance of a future inconvenience.

“Most excellent.” Rue lay staring up at the ceiling for a long time after, exhausted and happy.

Quesnel’s voice came sleepy soft. “Battle fever. I’ve read about it.”

“You mean it’s not always that fun?”

“Chérie, I shall attempt to ensure so.” He’d recovered most of his cheeky arrogance now that she was safely deflowered. “It’s usually not so intense. They say there is something about facing down death that drives a body to ecstasies after.”