Nell Gwynne's On Land and At Sea by Kage Baker, Kathleen Bartholomew

convenient berm grown with fragrant thyme. At least Mr. Pickett rhapsodized about its being thyme; Lady Beatrice thought it more a mix of chamomile and miner’s lettuce, but was too polite and too professional to correct her escort’s claims to any expertise. In any event, it was both soft and aromatic, which was enough for Lady Beatrice. It did not distract her as she lay in Pickett’s arms, listening attentively.
    He had recapped for her his devotion to England, and his late-in-life decision to apply his energy and skills to the benefit of the Mother Country. He stressed again his admiration for the gentlemen adventurers of the gloried past; he bemoaned the passivity of the current generation on both sides of the Atlantic. He assured Lady Beatrice of his determination to put his aspirations into concrete form and physical action.
    As he orated thus, Lady Beatrice was aware of the increasing tension in his arms about her. Mr. Pickett did not seem to notice this, nor the matching excitement that manifested itself against Lady Beatrice’s thigh even through the folds of her skirts. Mr. Pickett’s body was much more aware, apparently, than his busy mind; and Lady Beatrice writhed slowly and subtly in his embrace so as to encourage its attention.
    “I am a man of action,” Mr. Pickett assured Lady Beatrice. “I aim to prove myself to England as a knight aspirant to his lady. Real deeds, that’s the measure of a man!”
    Lady Beatrice was silent, gazing upward with wordless and admiring inquiry.
    “Dearest Beatrice…I know I can confide in you,” Pickett said rather hoarsely. “You know I am a sailor, and an engineer. For England’s honor and glory, I have built an entirely new kind of ship—indeed, a new kind of weapon! And it will all be for England’s good! My bridal gift to the country I mean to, to…espouse, you…might say…”
    “ Yes ,” was all Lady Beatrice did say as he paused. However, Mr. Pickett’s body finally took control of the conversation in this lull, and as she looked upward through lowered lashes, he at last fell silent for a moment and pressed his mouth violently to hers.
    Even through frenzied kisses, however, he related the details of his devoted artificery. Lady Beatrice need do no more than return his kisses—with a carefully calculated rate of rising ardor, timed against her own heartbeat—and occasionally murmur “Yes?” in an interrogative tone.
    “—it operates by steam power, you see. Silent, inexorable, irresistible steam power,” he mumbled against her bosom. (She deftly unfastened an offending button before he chewed it off.) “Steam moves the boat under water, and steam raises the cannon when she surfaces. And then fires it—but it fires nothing so gross as a mere cannon ball, dear girl, darling girl…”
    Stroking his cheek, Lady Beatrice made a softly encouraging sound. When Pickett’s mouth was less obstructed by the bosom he addressed, he continued in a rising voice:
    “It fires steam itself! It projects it, a lance of pure, shining power, Beatrice! I can slice a man in half with it! Or—” he amended at her sudden slight flinch, “—a wooden hull. And of course it can fire perfectly normal armaments as well. I am not a savage, after all. I mean to use it against enemy ships, sweetheart, not hapless sailors!”
    “What enemies, sir?” Lady Beatrice whispered against his lips.
    Pickett spent a moment distracted by her kisses before raising his head and declaring with shining eyes: “The French!”
     

     
    Back in Mr. Pickett’s sitting room, Mrs. Corvey had prevailed on Mrs. Drumm for a glass of sherry; Mrs. Drumm being now in possession of the butler’s keys since Mr. Pickett’s outraged dismissal of that humorously inclined gentleman. Mrs. Drumm obligingly fetched the sherry, but she also fetched out a small case bottle of something else, as well as a second glass. Mrs. Corvey, unable to reveal that she was aware of this oddity, was suddenly