The intensity of Meredith's response was both unexpected and as familiar as the heart beating in the chest covered in the tattoos and scars that were the story of his life. Each of touch of her fingers evoking memories that had his rational mind been in charge would have alarmed him. But there was no rational thought, no logic, no reasoning with the passion running free and loose in the warriors blood that was his birthright and curse. That Berserker was as lost in the taste of the chosen of Apollo's lips and the feel of her body against his as it had been in the battles those scars spoke of. Jamie couldn't have stopped now if he wanted to, not that he wanted to in the least.
As his hands worked with Meredith's bra the chosen of Ares felt her lift his shirt and with that the patience of Jamie's lusts seemed to ramp up a notch or ten. At here words the former Abram's gunner left his lips part company with that particular bit of her neck he was kissing. Resting his forehead against hers the outlaw biker smiled , drinking in the sight of his reflection in her grey eyes.
" Well practice makes prefect as they say. We just need a lot of it is all." He replied with a voice heavy and full of the promise of what he wanted to do.
Lifting his bonded off the counter Jamie carried over to the bedroom door not stopping in the slightest in his ministrations of Meredith's body. Shifting to a one handed grip of the woman who seemed both stranger and familiar lover he opened the door to her bedroom. Closing the door with a swift backwards kick he strode his prize in hand. Lying her atop the mattress he looked over the woman who the Gods saw fit to tie him to.
" Do you James Chisholm take this woman as your lawfully wedded wife. To have and to hold in Sickness and health, for richer or poorer until death do you part?"
" I do for all of eternity itself." Was the man whom tried not to show his disappoint in the priest's fallacy in thinking death would separate him from the love whom he'd left behind the ashes of a life lived after Yorktown. Not so long ago the lack of his knighthood would have stung but the life of nobility was now behind him.
A vision that was swiftly rejected as he clambered atop Meredith. It's enigmatic appeal as the vision centred on a woman who looked like his bonded held no sway with the Southside Demon as he worked to remove the jeans that she still wore. Reaching down with his mouth he once more kissed her with a violence and desperation of a man separated from his lover for years uncounted. Every taste seemed to remind him of something Jamie had been missing for far too long. Each touch only reminded it had been too long since he had last seen her. Why that feeling of the familiar didn't bother him was a tale the scarred and tattooed street fighter had about as much interest in as the reason why the sun rose and set. It was just there it mattered little to those not interested in philosophy and reason. Logic mattered not in the face that Meredith was here and his alone at the moment.
" I should be thanking the Gods, all things aside this isn't so bad..." Jamie spoke as he tore his lips from hers. His hands done with the catch on her bra he savoured the sight of Meredith clad in only her underwear, mere fabric that wouldn't stand a chance against the blood running hot and free in his veins. Removing that final barrier between him and his desire the Vice President of the Southside Demons Motorcycle Club let his passion spend itself throughout the night.
" So Sir Chisholm I wonder if they'll hang us or shoot us after this battle." A fresh faced youngster spoke, little more then a child in uniform his shoulders bore the rank of second lieutenant. He was the favoured child of a Marquee doing his part to raise the social status of his family by becoming a war hero. Despite his age the child solider had acquitted himself well, showing a steadiness that put shame to men twice his age. The closely shorn blonde haired man the child solider spoke to felt it a shame this absolute cock up of a war would likely be the last this promising youngster would ever fight.
" You think these American dogs will spare us, you've seen what their capable of lieutenant. Savages that could teach the red skinned ones a thing or two." Was the Knight's sneering reply, a brave façade to hide the fact his own company of Dragoons was scarcely any better. There was no honour in this war, neither side held any heroes. The Americans failing to realise how much their desire for an independent state would cost the common people of England, had deep the cost in blood had already been. The King and Country he fought for failing to realise their once loyal subjects needed a semblance of pride and yes a little independence. Not the overbearing demands of a colonial power fighting a war with the world itself.
" 5th company, forward." The cry rang out over the screams of fighting men, the roar of cannon fire and muskets.
" Up and at them lads, Nemo me impune lacessit." The Knight cried as his orders rang across the battlefield. Kicking his spurs into the mount he rode the leader of the 5th Dragoons rode across the battlefield, followed by his men. The thundering of his heart drowned out the horses hooves as he cut through the enemy with sabre and pistol. The feel of that razor sharp blade cutting through human necks sickening and exhilarating at the same time. He was in his element, the flames of war were everything made sense and nothing else mattered but victory.
So much so that he rode too deep into the enemy, his Dragoons doing their best with the suddenly overwhelming odds. Coming to his senses the Knight ordered a retreat. But before the words had left his lips a cannon shot landed beside him, the shrapnel cutting down his mount and lacerating his left side. Falling to the ground he came up swinging catching a militiaman in the upper chest. Wrenching his blade free he ripped the musket out of the dying man's hands. Bringing the Kentucky long rifle to bear he emptied into an other militiaman.
" Get them out of here lieutenant." The commander of the 5th Dragoons ordered as he dodged underneath the bayonet thrust of his attackers. The fresh faced child soldier saluted with his sabre as he whirled his horse around, the 5th Dragoons, the elite vanguard of the British Army for the first time in all of recorded history retreated from an enemy force to regroup with the struggling regular infantry.
The Knight danced around the American musket fire, the thrusts of their bayonets and felt a ball tear into his flesh. Dropping to the ground the tall soldier held onto a kneeling position only by virtue of thrusting his sabre into the ground and using it as a support. Blood flowed freely down the left half of his body, his red coat splattered with the mud and blood of combat. Grabbing his third and last pistol off his belt the Dragoon emptied it into a American wearing the blue coat of a regular. His breathing a harsh uneven rhythm the thoughts that consumed him at the moment where nothing of war or the last stand that the poets seemed to love to glorify. No for him the thoughts that raced through him as he watched death come for him held only the images of a woman who he had loved in his youth when he was in King George's personal guard.
" I am not the most holy of men God but please if it be in your plan let me see her one more time, and I'll never ask anything else." The wounded Knight prayed with earnest fervour as he watched American troops stride towards him, confident in their kill their steps held no urgency. The stopped several feet away, out of reach of the sabre that kept him from collapsing on all fours. Their blue coats insultingly clean and free of the stains of combat they lined up in a firing line, their rifles bayonet's gleaming in the afternoon sun.
" There's been enough dying for one day men, lower those rifles. " A gravelly sounding voice spoke, revealed to a grey haired man who wore the rank of a Lieutenant Colonel. The knight thanked his lord and creator before blacking out.
The dreams he dreamt as he slept beside Meredith his lust utterly spent for the moment seemed both fact and fiction. Jamie couldn't tell if they were memories or visions induced by the bond. But why would the Gods care to show him the life of an eighteenth century British officer. It made no sense to this former soldier, for his military training and grasp of history revealed he was dreaming about Yorktown, the battle that gave birth to a nation. But every swing of the sword, every pull of the trigger felt like his own, as if he was simply recalling a battle once fought and lost. A feeling the chosen of Ares held very little experience in, he always won. Defeat was not part of his creed.
RPG
