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“Would you come with me?” he said, after a long time. “If... I mean, if we found a way you think would work. Would you want to?"

Don’t say it. 

But the words had a will of their own, “Teddy, I’d go as your servant, if it meant I could go with you.”

He pulled her tighter to him. “I wish you could. God damn it all, I wish you could. I need you by me, Peaches. I don’t know how to do it anymore, all that bowing, all those bloody rules. It’s been too long. I’ll need someone like you to keep me from going off the hooks.”

“I know.”

“And I would. You know I would. But... ugh. We’re not allowed maidservants, you see? Bachelors, I mean. Otherwise, I’d...”

She stiffened as he’d said it, the idea struck her the way a hammer slams into a piece of iron to make it into something of use. 

No.

 No, don’t suggest that. 

Oh, but it would work, and he would love it. He would think it was such a lark.

“Nah, we couldn’t,” she whispered, daring, their old code. “It wouldn’t work, anyhow.” 

“There’s a look in your eye, Peaches.” He could talk, because there it was in his as well, over the shock and the exhaustion and the blood. “I know that look.”

“We’d never pull it off.” She kissed him, “Must have gone soft in the head. Don’t trouble yourself about it.”

“What’s in that wicked mind of yours?”

“Well, look. Here, give me that sheet.” And as he tugged it off the bed, her fingers got busy at her stays. 

When her breasts spilled out, he said, “I’m a little fagged for that, Peaches,” but cupped one all the same, like he was picking a choice apple from the tree. She batted his hand away and tore a long strip from the piece of bedsheet. The linen was pretty worn, so it came away without much in the way of protest. 

“Right. Let’s see if I can remember how this is done.”

 Then she used the middle of it to hold her breasts up against her chest and brought the ends round to her back where she crossed them, bringing them forward again. It pinched a bit , and she remembered to breathe out, steady and slow. After that, she drew them around her back again, over the front, crossing and recrossing, tearing new strips when she had to, until her chest was swaddled in bandages and her high, little breasts were no more than tiny bumps underneath it. 

Teddy, bless him, hadn’t worked it out and looked at her as though she was fit for Bedlam.

“Fine as your dugs look mummified, I really don’t see how this helps us.”

“You want a manservant?” She bowed, sending a cascade of black curls over her face, “Well, then. Bring me my scissors, my Lord.”

He stood and walked over to her sewing basket, unsteady. “Look, I’m happy to destroy the bed in one last spree here, but -”

“Shut your trap, and get them scissors.”

“As you command.”

“I used to do this,” she explained, untying her skirts and letting them fall down around her ankles, until she stood in just the bandages and her altogether, “when I was girl, back in... Well, back in that pisspot place where I grew up. Gent like you wouldn’t know it, and that’s for the best. What I’d do was chore my brother’s togs, stuff my hair up under the cap and saunter off to market to... Well, it don’t matter. Scissors’ll do a better job.” 

He passed her the scissors. 

She wrapped a long strand of black hair around the index finger of her left hand, and pulled it away from her head. The scissors bit through it with a rasping sound and a lovelock fell to the floor. She didn’t pause for sentiment, but grabbed the next bit and sliced through it. 

Don’t stop, or you’ll lose your nerve.

“Carry on like that and you’ll look like a Frenchie on the way to the guillotine.” 

But his eyes travelled the length of her with that slow, worshipful appraisal, taking in long, strong limbs, and the dark hair of her legs and cunny.

She shifted her thighs together, but continued to hack at her hair.

“I still don’t quite know what you’re playing at but I’m happy to watch it.”

 “You’d be more use if you got off your arse and helped me with this bloody mane.”

And he stopped, blinked, and then with that awed simplicity of his, he understood. “Oh. Oh, ‘were it not better, because that I am more than common tall, that I did suit me all points like a man?’”

“What?”

“What I mean to say, Peaches, is that you’re a wonder. Give me those shears.”

To save him from standing, she sat on the rough floor by his boots, leaning back against his knees as he fussed and fretted at her hair. Her long black curls fell onto the floor around them. His hands were strong, calloused from years spent handling reigns and guns and foils. Between the rasp of the scissors, he touched her cheek, her scalp.

“Poor hair. You’d do this for me?” 

“Oh, it’ll be a laugh,” she pulled her knees up to her chest, against the cold. “I mean, we’ll never pull this off, but why not? Tell this Hedge I’m your man and I’ll be there with you.”

“In my room at all hours,” he whispered, and she felt the tug on her scalp as he sliced through more hair, as his breath brushed against her neck. “No-one would mention it.”

“Making up your bed for you. Helping you turn in at night.”

“Coming with me when I travel. Oh, we couldn’t work it better, Peaches.” He leaned down, and kissed her ear. “Still, I’ll need a surname for you. Can’t call have a man called Peaches, now, can I?”

“Waghorn,” she said, and squeezed his ankle. “And I’ll answer to it, and all, what with it being my name.”

“What would I do without you?”

“Die. In an alley. From stupidity.”

“Ah-ah,” and he pulled her hair, just hard enough to hurt. “Best get into good habits.” He was grinning, she could tell he was grinning just by the voice. She hadn’t heard him sound like that in months. “Go on, say it.”

“Say what?”

He pulled another strand of hair harder than he needed to and whispered, “Say, 'My Lord.'”

“Alright, you’d die in an alley from stupidity, my Lord.”

“Oh, Waghorn,” he said, in the same teasing voice. “You’re going to have to guard your tongue. I can’t have that kind of impertinence from staff.”

“Don’t get too full of yourself.”

“Don’t get too full of yourself, my Lord,” and he grabbed her ear, twisting it lightly.

“Ow. My Lord.”

“Say it again. I like hearing it.”

“Fuck off.”

“Fuck off, my Lord,” and he twisted harder.

“I’ll bloody chalk you.”

“I’ll bloody chalk you, my Lord.”

“Ow.”

“Be a good boy, Waghorn, and I’ll let go.”

She sighed and pouted, “My Lord.” 

Still holding her ear he twisted her to face him. “Say, ‘Yes, my Lord.’” His lips had a wicked grin on them, and they were full and bruised, and a kiss’ distance from her own.

She lowered her eyelids and felt the cold leather of his boots against her thighs, “Yes, my Lord.”

“Now say, ‘please kiss me, my Lord.” He pinched her ear a bit tighter. 

“Ah.”

“Go on.”

“Please... please kiss me, my Lord.”

“What if I don’t want to kiss you?”

“But you do want to kiss me. Ow, fuck. I meant my Lord. You do want to kiss me, my Lord.”

“Do I? Bit presumptuous, that,” He let go of her ear, sliding his hand around the back of her half-cropped hair, pulling her to him. 

He tasted of brandy, and he was warm and soft and she fell into him, keener than the moment could explain, her nipples hard against their bindings, her legs tender against his boots and when he finally let her go, she looked long and deep into his endless, beautiful eyes.

“I should have let Sharp Rick cut your sodding ear off.” 

“Don’t forget yourself, Waghorn.” He pressed his lips together, his smile one of lopsided mischief.

“You can drop it.”

“We’ve got to get you in to character, Peaches.” This time, he pinched her lip, the one that was still hanging a little, waiting for the next kiss. “We can’t have you fouling up in front of Hedge. Come on. What do you say?”

She ground her teeth in mock resistance. A wild joy seemed to light him from the inside and despite the bruises on his face, the blood that he hadn’t managed to clean off his neck, he was glowing with it. You couldn’t deny him when he was like this. 

At least, she had never been able to.

“You can do it, Waghorn.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Better. Now, kiss me.”


She knelt up to get closer to him, but he put a finger against her lips, lightly, holding her back. Something about it made her gasp, although she had always hated these games before now, when it was other men playing them. “Yes, my Lord,” she said and put her mouth against his, letting him take what he wanted from her. She slid her tongue over his teeth, tasted the warmth of him and felt the heat burn between her legs.

He put his hand on her jaw, a tender pressure that pushing her away from him, “That’s it.” His other hand caressed her head, feeling the prickling sensitivity of the cropped hair, the heavy strands of the longer parts, “Now, be a good boy and suck my prick.”

She felt herself smile and ran her fingertips along the insides of his thighs as his back arched away from her. “Very good, my Lord.”