The Baltic War(48)

Tom settled his massive frame a bit further into the divan. "Oh. That."



"Yes. Oh. That. If he gets that girl pregnant . . ."



Tom cleared his throat again. "That'd be a neat trick, Melissa. Seeing as how—being crude about it—he hasn't managed to get into her pants yet. Well, not pants, ladies' garments being what they are in this day and age. Lift her skirts and undo . . . whatever she's got on underneath."



Rita Simpson winced again.



So did Melissa. "The operative phrase being 'yet,' I take it. You admit he's trying."



"Well, yeah, sure. Of course he is. He's a dyed-in-the-wool hillbilly, Melissa. Might as well ask him to give up his pickup and Cat cap for a VW and a beret, as ask him not to put the make on a girl. He's got his self-respect, y'know. On the other hand, he's not being crude about it and he's not even really pushing all that hard. Just enough for form's sake. Being as how—miracles do happen, from time to time—he's actually got the serious hots for the girl, he's not just trying to get laid."



Melissa looked back at him, squinting a little. "And exactly how do you know all this?"



"He talks to me about it, how else?" Tom spread his huge hands. "Who else would he talk to, concerning this subject? He's a hillbilly, Melissa. He certainly isn't going to discuss something like this with—you know—"



His wife chuckled. "A girl. And he defines anything female as a 'girl.' "



"Well, not Melissa. He pretty much still defines her as the Schoolmarm From Hell. Her gender comes a long way second to her innately demonic essence. But, yeah, a girl. It wouldn't even occur to Darryl to talk to anyone except a guy about it."



Melissa tossed her head a little, indicating one of the rooms to the side. "There's Friedrich."



Tom shrugged. "Friedrich's a down-timer. Darryl gets along fine with down-timers, but this isn't a subject he'd feel comfortable discussing with one of them. Even a male down-timer. So that leaves me—even if I am his commanding officer."



Sitting a bit further off in a chair, Gayle Mason issued a soft, half-grunted chuckle. "Especially since rank sits very lightly on Darryl McCarthy's consciousness. It's a good thing you don't have a General MacArthur sort of temperament, Tom, or he'd have been court-martialed by now."



"Ten times over," Tom Simpson agreed placidly.



"You're sure about this?" Melissa demanded.



Rita spoke up. "Melissa, I really do think you're worrying too much. I spend a lot more time than you do in the Tower's residential quarters, because of my medical rounds. It's not simply a matter of Darryl's intentions. Or the girl's, for that matter. As cramped as everything is in the Tower—and as good-looking as Victoria Short is—I can guarantee you there isn't more than five minutes at a time when she's out of somebody's sight."



"The 'somebodies' involved usually being her own family," Tom added. "Who include her brother Andrew, who's a Yeoman Warder; her mother Isabel, who is definitely in the 'no sparrow shall fall' camp of parenthood; her brothers, motivated to watch her by honor, and her sisters, motivated by envy; several cousins; and, last but not least, her uncle Stephen Hamilton—"



"Eek," issued from Gayle.



"—whom nobody this side of an insane asylum, and sure as hell no level-headed hillbilly like Darryl, is even going to think of pissing off. Relax, willya? Yes, it's true that Darryl has the serious hots for Victoria Short. No doubt about it. But I can tell you, Melissa, that the hots are serious enough that he's even—twice, no less—uttered the young male hillbilly's ultimate curse."



Melissa lifted her eyebrows. "Which is?"



Gayle snorted again. "Can't you guess?" Her voice dropped an octave, roughened, and got a heavier West Virginia accent. "Damn, I think I'm gonna have to get married."



"Yup," said Tom. "Except the prologue was a tad stronger than a mere 'damn.' The first time it was 'I'm fucked, aren't I?' The second time it was just a simple declarative 'I'm fucked.' "



Melissa couldn't help but laugh. "O brave new world, that hath such miracles in it! Well, I hope you're right. The only thing that's made our captivity here fairly tolerable—well, I'll admit the earl of Strafford has been civilized—is that the Warders have been so friendly to us."



She gave Rita an acknowledging nod. "Mostly because they think—and rightly so—that she's kept their kids alive and in good health."



Rita's face darkened a little. "Mostly. There've still been a few deaths, and it was touch and go with some others. Still is, with poor little Cecily."