flavour of the day and pistachio with malt
Story: Timeless { backstory | index }
Title: Ultimatums
Rating: G
Challenge: FOTD: rakish, Pistachio #3: ceremony
Toppings/Extras: malt
Wordcount: 1,071
Summary: Captain Jacob Graham celebrates becoming a privateer for the French.
Notes: Oh, do these two never stop flirting? Rakish: Smart; jaunty; dashing. PFAH: Graham : are we waiting here for catastrophe?
Captain Jacob Graham grinned and placed another kiss on the Frenchwoman’s hand. The stately occasion was in full swing; powdered noses and gleaming wigs all round, conversations being struck up in the curls and flourishes of the French tongue. Graham himself looked smarter than he ever had in the cobalt blue of the French naval uniform, official pip of captaincy on his shoulder, brown hair swept into something resembling order.
“You dance quite well, considering you know nothing of it,” Miss Chantal Ballou said with a twinkly giggle as he led her away from the dance floor. The captain was garnering rather a lot of interest-plenty of frowns and shunning, of course, not only for being born a commoner but for being an Englishman. Nonetheless, with his devil-may-care smile and cavalier attitude, it was hard to outright dislike the man.
Apparently this was doubly so for the ladies.
“I just had ter follow you… you’ve got a nifty pair o’ dancin’ feet on you,” Graham replied with a roguish wink. He fit the role of Cheeky Young Rapscallion very well-although the ‘young’ part was perhaps a little debatable-and he was a born storyteller. There had to be one advantage to the many uncomfortable situations he had been in, and he’d found it; his exaggeratedly heroic ways of overcoming those obstacles impressed clueless young ladies very much.
Chantal giggled again, running a hand through her delicate coils of brown hair. Her skin was so pale it looked luminous in the candlelit hall… and she really was one of the most slow-witted people that Graham had ever met.
Of course, it was always good to be careful what one wished for-
“What the bloody hell are you doing here?”
A delighted smile immediately flashed across Jacob Graham’s face. And just when he thought the night couldn’t get any better! Releasing Chantal’s hand, he spun around to face the Englishman behind him. Lord Ashdown looked his repressed version of absolutely livid, and Graham wasn’t too surprised. Chantal Ballou was good with English but frowned slightly as though she had misheard.
“I could very well ask the same of you, Mr France-Hater,” Graham responded brightly. The French colony of Florida Keys was the last place he had expected to see him.
“It’s Lord Fr-… I am being perfectly serious, Captain, what are you doing here?” Ashdown stepped forwards threateningly, silver-topped cane held loosely in one hand, casting an unimpressed glare over Chantal and shooing her away with a disgusted wave of his fingers. He then snapped his attention back to Graham with loathing so fierce it almost burned.
Graham laughed.
“See this uniform, dearest?” he asked, plucking at a gold-edged lapel. “I’m now a privateer for the French crown. Ha!”
“What madman hired you?”
“Fellow by the name of de Navarre. ‘Eard of ‘im?”
“Unfortunately I have,” Ashdown responded, raising his eyebrows. Graham was rather enjoying how clearly Ashdown was longing to murder him on the spot-but that was the thing about Lord Ashdown. He would never do such a thing in polite company. What a hoot! “I cannot say I am surprised, though I thought even that dolt would manage to see that you are clearly untrustworthy.”
“Of course not,” Graham purred. “Anyway, Ashdown, that just about puts you out of the picture, am I right? You can’t touch me now that I’m a legal pirate for the French.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Ashdown said with a ghost of a smile, the only satisfaction he could glean from the conversation. He rested both hands on the silver-topped cane and let it come to a rest on the tiles between his feet. “I am, in actual fact, here to deliver the final ultimatum from our King. In just a few days, England and France will officially be at war.” Ashdown’s smirk became more defined. “And then I will quite happily destroy you.”
Well, there went another of his so-called genius plans.
“That’s not a very gentlemanly thing to say, Ashdown,” Graham replied lightly. “We should be treatin’ each other with respect, now that we’re all of the same circle, wot ho, et cetera.”
Ashdown responded by banging the metal-tipped foot of his cane down on Graham’s foot as hard as he could. It took a lot of effort not to make any sort of noise. The young lord really could be a passive-aggressive arsehole sometimes.
“You still hold the humble rank of captain, remember,” Ashdown hissed, “and I know you well enough to know that you cannot commit yourself to a single idea for more than eight seconds without becoming bored. You will take off with as much of de Navarre’s riches as you can stuff down your breeches within moments of the declaration of war, and do you know what will happen next? I will destroy you anyway for being such an odious, ridiculous, foolish, cowardly blight upon my country’s reputation.”
Even by Ashdown’s standards, that was a commentary filled with bile. Graham blinked at him for a moment and wondered if it would really be so bad to swing a punch at him. He had always wanted to do that without Prowse getting in the way. That reminded him-
“Where’s your man Prowse, sirrah?” Graham asked, glancing around.
“Busy,” Ashdown said in that dangerous tone of voice that let him know Prowse was most probably wiping blood from his knife at that moment. He spun away from him. “Good day, Captain. Enjoy your career. I trust that it will be most illustrious. And, more to the point, short.”
“Can’t we just have a nice conversation fer once?” Graham asked, bounding after him cheerfully. “You look lovely, by the way.”
“I’m leaving,” Ashdown said-apparently not just to him but to the world in general-and then marched himself out of the hall as fast as he could without seeming rude or hurried. It was the first time Graham had seen him move at more than his usual indolent, confident stroll.
As Graham looked on in half-bafflement, half-amusement, he felt a pair of hands land lightly on his shoulders. He turned around to see Miss Chantal Ballou smiling prettily at him.
“A friend of yours?” she asked in her twee French accent.
“Never mind that grumpy old git,” Graham said brightly. “What’s the point in gettin’ promoted if I can’t ‘ave a rascally tipple? ‘Ere-show me how to dance!”
Title: Ultimatums
Rating: G
Challenge: FOTD: rakish, Pistachio #3: ceremony
Toppings/Extras: malt
Wordcount: 1,071
Summary: Captain Jacob Graham celebrates becoming a privateer for the French.
Notes: Oh, do these two never stop flirting? Rakish: Smart; jaunty; dashing. PFAH: Graham : are we waiting here for catastrophe?
Captain Jacob Graham grinned and placed another kiss on the Frenchwoman’s hand. The stately occasion was in full swing; powdered noses and gleaming wigs all round, conversations being struck up in the curls and flourishes of the French tongue. Graham himself looked smarter than he ever had in the cobalt blue of the French naval uniform, official pip of captaincy on his shoulder, brown hair swept into something resembling order.
“You dance quite well, considering you know nothing of it,” Miss Chantal Ballou said with a twinkly giggle as he led her away from the dance floor. The captain was garnering rather a lot of interest-plenty of frowns and shunning, of course, not only for being born a commoner but for being an Englishman. Nonetheless, with his devil-may-care smile and cavalier attitude, it was hard to outright dislike the man.
Apparently this was doubly so for the ladies.
“I just had ter follow you… you’ve got a nifty pair o’ dancin’ feet on you,” Graham replied with a roguish wink. He fit the role of Cheeky Young Rapscallion very well-although the ‘young’ part was perhaps a little debatable-and he was a born storyteller. There had to be one advantage to the many uncomfortable situations he had been in, and he’d found it; his exaggeratedly heroic ways of overcoming those obstacles impressed clueless young ladies very much.
Chantal giggled again, running a hand through her delicate coils of brown hair. Her skin was so pale it looked luminous in the candlelit hall… and she really was one of the most slow-witted people that Graham had ever met.
Of course, it was always good to be careful what one wished for-
“What the bloody hell are you doing here?”
A delighted smile immediately flashed across Jacob Graham’s face. And just when he thought the night couldn’t get any better! Releasing Chantal’s hand, he spun around to face the Englishman behind him. Lord Ashdown looked his repressed version of absolutely livid, and Graham wasn’t too surprised. Chantal Ballou was good with English but frowned slightly as though she had misheard.
“I could very well ask the same of you, Mr France-Hater,” Graham responded brightly. The French colony of Florida Keys was the last place he had expected to see him.
“It’s Lord Fr-… I am being perfectly serious, Captain, what are you doing here?” Ashdown stepped forwards threateningly, silver-topped cane held loosely in one hand, casting an unimpressed glare over Chantal and shooing her away with a disgusted wave of his fingers. He then snapped his attention back to Graham with loathing so fierce it almost burned.
Graham laughed.
“See this uniform, dearest?” he asked, plucking at a gold-edged lapel. “I’m now a privateer for the French crown. Ha!”
“What madman hired you?”
“Fellow by the name of de Navarre. ‘Eard of ‘im?”
“Unfortunately I have,” Ashdown responded, raising his eyebrows. Graham was rather enjoying how clearly Ashdown was longing to murder him on the spot-but that was the thing about Lord Ashdown. He would never do such a thing in polite company. What a hoot! “I cannot say I am surprised, though I thought even that dolt would manage to see that you are clearly untrustworthy.”
“Of course not,” Graham purred. “Anyway, Ashdown, that just about puts you out of the picture, am I right? You can’t touch me now that I’m a legal pirate for the French.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Ashdown said with a ghost of a smile, the only satisfaction he could glean from the conversation. He rested both hands on the silver-topped cane and let it come to a rest on the tiles between his feet. “I am, in actual fact, here to deliver the final ultimatum from our King. In just a few days, England and France will officially be at war.” Ashdown’s smirk became more defined. “And then I will quite happily destroy you.”
Well, there went another of his so-called genius plans.
“That’s not a very gentlemanly thing to say, Ashdown,” Graham replied lightly. “We should be treatin’ each other with respect, now that we’re all of the same circle, wot ho, et cetera.”
Ashdown responded by banging the metal-tipped foot of his cane down on Graham’s foot as hard as he could. It took a lot of effort not to make any sort of noise. The young lord really could be a passive-aggressive arsehole sometimes.
“You still hold the humble rank of captain, remember,” Ashdown hissed, “and I know you well enough to know that you cannot commit yourself to a single idea for more than eight seconds without becoming bored. You will take off with as much of de Navarre’s riches as you can stuff down your breeches within moments of the declaration of war, and do you know what will happen next? I will destroy you anyway for being such an odious, ridiculous, foolish, cowardly blight upon my country’s reputation.”
Even by Ashdown’s standards, that was a commentary filled with bile. Graham blinked at him for a moment and wondered if it would really be so bad to swing a punch at him. He had always wanted to do that without Prowse getting in the way. That reminded him-
“Where’s your man Prowse, sirrah?” Graham asked, glancing around.
“Busy,” Ashdown said in that dangerous tone of voice that let him know Prowse was most probably wiping blood from his knife at that moment. He spun away from him. “Good day, Captain. Enjoy your career. I trust that it will be most illustrious. And, more to the point, short.”
“Can’t we just have a nice conversation fer once?” Graham asked, bounding after him cheerfully. “You look lovely, by the way.”
“I’m leaving,” Ashdown said-apparently not just to him but to the world in general-and then marched himself out of the hall as fast as he could without seeming rude or hurried. It was the first time Graham had seen him move at more than his usual indolent, confident stroll.
As Graham looked on in half-bafflement, half-amusement, he felt a pair of hands land lightly on his shoulders. He turned around to see Miss Chantal Ballou smiling prettily at him.
“A friend of yours?” she asked in her twee French accent.
“Never mind that grumpy old git,” Graham said brightly. “What’s the point in gettin’ promoted if I can’t ‘ave a rascally tipple? ‘Ere-show me how to dance!”