The Trouble With Sin (Devilish Vignettes (the Devil DeVere) #2)(15)

"You have not only shamed your family, you have also utterly destroyed any chance of gaining a living by the church. Thus, it appears only one option remains."

"But I can think of any number of alternatives," Simon argued. "Indeed, I am even now in the process of compiling a volume of my work—"

"Your lewd and lascivious scribbles merit not the least attention in this discussion," Lord Singleton cut him off. "No offspring of mine is going to earn his bread as some ha'penny hack living in Grub Street squalor. No, my boy! You will give up your libertine leanings to earn a respectable living. Indeed, your mother has already posted a letter to your Uncle Thomas."

Simon's mouth went instantly dry. "Uncle Thomas?"

"Now that he is appointed Commander-in-Chief of his Majesty's North American forces, the time is nigh to purchase you a commission. Your latest escapade has made this all but a necessity."

Simon's stomach clenched. The room began to spin. "God, no! Not the army! Anything but the army!"

"Indeed the army! I only await Thomas' response as to which unit he would place you in."

"Surely you cannot mean to ship me off to that godforsaken wilderness!"

"I mean to do precisely that. You will set sail immediately for New York, where you will join one of General Thomas Gage's fine regiments."

"But I am no soldier!" Simon cried.

"Not now, perhaps, but you will be soon enough," his father replied icily.

Simon stared dumbly at his father's mouth, watching it work, but barely comprehending the utterances that continued to spew forth. It was all too surreal. For years Simon had managed to elude, defy, and flout all manner of authority, making larks, laughter, and love the very heart of his existence. The army and all it represented with its rules, regulations, and regimentalism was the antithesis of all he believed in. His very soul would be crushed beneath their marching feet. Verily, to Simon, it was a fate worse than death.





"Thou shalt not laugh, thou shalt not romp,

Let's grimly kiss with bated breath;

As quietly and solemnly

As Life when it is kissing Death."

- A Fleeting Passion by William Henry Davies





Epilogue


A battlefield near Saratoga, New York -1777



He jerked awake at the sound of approaching voices, stifling first his groan and then the urge to call out. They were enemy voices. Or looters. Albeit present circumstances made them much the same. He attempted to bring his muddled thoughts into cohesion with a violent shake of his head that only created an excruciating scintillation of sparks behind his eyes.

He recalled all now with visual flashes behind closed lids. He'd been part of a vanguard that had ridden straight into an ambush. With saber in one hand and pistol in the other, his weapons had been of little affect against an exploding cannon—a cannon the enemy wasn't supposed to possess, a fatal blunder of the recon team. He'd been struck in the temple by a jolt of molten lightning and blinded by his own blood. His horse had gone down, trapping him beneath, the horse that still held him captive with its rapidly decomposing body.

He re-opened his eyes and looked wildly about. Dear God, how long had it been? Was it only hours, or had it been days that he'd lain here half buried? The maggots feeding on his horse indicated the latter. Now as full consciousness assailed him, so did the stench. His stomach lurched with dry heaves from the sickly sweet perfume of death that surrounded him.

The enemy had drawn near enough that he could now hear other sounds—the crunch of boots on bone and the grunt of exertion, followed by the sickly popping sound of air escaping bloated bodies as enemy bayonets penetrated the corpses.

They were much closer.

Panic raced through his veins as he groped blindly for his sidearm. He didn't know how long he had until they discovered him, but there was no escape. Even if he could dig his way out, he'd lost all feeling in his legs. Perhaps he no longer had any legs and only the crushing weight of an equine carcass had prevented him from hemorrhaging to death.

Fumbling with his left hand, he located the familiar cold metal cylinder that was the barrel of his pistol. A single shot was all he needed. He prayed to God it was still loaded, for his right hand was mangled beyond redemption and useless.

Bloody hell! The weapon was caked with dirt and dried blood. He rubbed it against his coat in an attempt to clear away the bits of debris. He had only one chance. He couldn't afford for it to jam, and time was growing short.

They were almost upon him.

His fingers trembled as he cocked the hammer. He attempted to raise the pistol, but even this small exertion proved too draining of his already exhausted reserves. His hand dropped lifelessly to his side.

Captain Simon Singleton's eyes fluttered shut to the lovely apparition of two laughing Irish nymphs. A bawdy verse came to mind, painting a ghost of a smile across parched and bloodied lips. As I draw my last breath and sigh my last sigh, I wish I was lost between dear Brigid's thighs…





Sneak Peek: Jewel of the East (#5)





(Simon and Salime's story)



Chapter One



King's Place, an elite brothel in St. James, Westminster - 1784



"Are you quite certain, Mustafa?" Salime repeated in astonishment. The mute servant replied with a confident nod of his giant beturbaned head. With an exclamation of mixed anger and dismay, Salime resumed her fitful pacing of her chamber, kicking at the silk-tasseled cushions that littered the floor.