Free 1862 by Robert Conroy Page A

learn at almost thirty years of age what most Frenchwomen know at fifteen. I was taught by a friend of mine at that age. She was very helpful. I learned from her how to both give and receive pleasure.”
    She? Rebecca was astonished. “Valerie, you’re not one of those women who prefer women, are you?”
    “Of course not, although I admit to having tried it a couple of times. I vastly prefer men, even the inferior ones. I was talking about imparting knowledge through specific experiences. Surely you’re not afraid of a little knowledge, are you?”
    Rebecca laughed and blushed. “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, isn’t it?”
    Valerie laughed and the two women headed back to the French embassy, where they would have tea. She was intrigued and delighted that Rebecca hadn’t rejected her suggestion. Poor little Rebecca Devon was growing up. This, she decided, could be very interesting. Their mutual love of art would be a beginning. Both had taken up charcoal sketching and painting with watercolors, but with limited results. Valerie had some skill, but Rebecca’s work was stiff and lifeless.
    Perhaps, Valerie thought, working with paints and charcoal would be a conduit to liberating the passionate creature Valerie thought lurked beneath Rebecca’s exterior. If nothing else, it would be an interesting adventure.
    As Nathan Hunter entered his darkened bedroom, he noticed a bulge behind one of the drapes. He forced himself to act normal while keeping an eye on where it looked like an intruder might be hiding. He thought about leaving the room but he was alone in the house. General Scott was visiting friends with Sergeant Fromm and it was Bridget’s night off. No, he would stay and surprise the person by becoming the aggressor.
    Nathan carefully laid his dress gloves on the bed and moved to rest his cane against a dresser. As he did, he pushed a release and the bottom of the cane dropped off. In the same motion, he quickly wheeled and jabbed the short sword into the bulge.
    “Jaysus Christ that hurts!” a man’s voice howled, and a body fell in front of him. Nathan planted his foot on the man’s chest and placed the sword, really a modified bayonet, against the intruder’s throat. The man’s shirt was sliced at his belly, but there was only a little blood. Nathan had intended to shock, not kill.
    “Just lie there,” Nathan said angrily. “Move and I’ll run this through your throat till it sticks into the floor. You’re not dying, not even hurt. I barely broke the skin. Do you understand me?”
    “Marvelously well, kind sir, and I have no intention of moving without your permission. And probably not even then.”
    Nathan paused and took in his captive. The man was short, thin, and in his mid-forties. By the accent, the man was Irish. He was, however, well-dressed and, since Nathan hadn’t killed him outright, was rapidly losing any fear he might have felt at having a sword at his belly and then at his throat.
    “Now, what were you doing hiding in my room? Looking for valuables, I don’t doubt.”
    “Actually, kind sir, I was looking for you. That is, if you are Mr. Hunter?”
    Surprising and interesting, Nathan thought. How did the man know who he was? “If that is the case, may I ask why you didn’t make an appointment, or even knock?”
    “I thought the subtle way was best. If nobody sees me, then maybe no lies are necessary to deny any conversation. By now you should realize that it’s the way things are done in this pigsty of a town.”
    With one quickly moving hand, the intruder swept Nathan’s sword away and, with the other, sent Nathan off him and rolling across the floor. In an instant, the Irishman was on Nathan’s chest, but it was just a half second too late. The knife from Nathan’s boot was against his throat.
    “Jaysus,” the intruder gasped again. “You’re very religious,” Nathan said. “How many more of those bloody damned things do you have?”
    “Enough. I was taught