Chapter 6: Double Agents
Bloody late-night summons. Just what I needed. I knew better than to walk into traps. Yet here I was. They called it duty. Duty doesn't make you hard, but it sure as hell can get you hanged.
Kingfisher House. Midnight. The name itself stank of vanished men and bad decisions. A scrawled note, shoved under my door, demanded I come alone. Shit. The old mansion where people disappeared. James knew what happened there.
Bad idea, Hartwell. Bad bloody idea. This is how officers vanish. No one would even look for me till morning parade. Family would get a nice letter. 'Died serving Empire.' No mention of how I was stupid enough to follow a woman's handwriting to my bloody grave.
Door was open. Place stank of damp and her incense. 'Up here.' Man's voice?
Well, that's not her. Trap confirmed. Should turn around now. So why am I still going up these creaking stairs?
Kamala stood there in red and gold silk. Heavy gold at her throat, and a subtle, familiar band on her left hand. Eyes black with kohl, and a stillness that spoke of long practice, of years spent navigating treacherous waters. And in that instant, every warning bell in my head flatlined.
Ah. That's why. Stupid cock doing the thinking again. Cambridge education wasted on me.
Three Indian men behind her. One military, no mistaking it. Two younger ones.
Outnumbered. Outgunned, probably. Best play along until I see an opening.
'Evening, Captain.' Her voice was cool, a stark contrast to the easy familiarity she'd shown two nights back. Nothing like when she'd been under him. 'My friends need better proof you're with us.' There was a weary authority in her tone, as if she'd played this particular game many times before.
Two nights ago she called me her English stallion. Now I'm just 'Captain.' Must be the company we're keeping.
The military one stepped forward. 'Colonel Singh. Bengal Lancers.' Deserter. High rank.
Read his file. Nasty piece of work. Three British officers found with their throats cut after he disappeared. Westbrook would have kittens if he knew I was standing here.
'We need something real from you,' Singh said. 'Not just talk.'
'I've given you plenty already.'
None of it accurate, mind you. But they don't need to know that.
'Scraps,' Singh spat. 'We need action.'
Kamala handed him a folder. Governor's schedule. Guards. Names. She didn't look at Hartwell, her gaze fixed on Singh, a shared, grim understanding passing between them that spoke volumes more than words. A flicker in her eyes, almost imperceptible, seemed to weigh the cost of this act. The gold band on her finger glinted in the dim light, a stark contrast to the dangerous documents.
Fuck me. This wasn't small-time rebellion or political manoeuvring. This was outright sedition. An assassination plot. Not only would I be court-martialled, but my neck would be staring straight at a noose.
'Three days. Fort William,' Singh said. 'Half the guards gone. Your job.'
They wanted to kill the Governor.
No, no, no. This is far beyond my brief. Supposed to watch and report. Not get involved in bloody assassinations.
'If I say no?'
Kamala moved in close, her presence a sudden, chilling shroud. 'Then we're done.' Her hand, cool and deliberate, brushed his cock. 'Everything ends.' The unspoken threat hung heavy in the air, a familiar weight to her, perhaps.
Everything including my life, I'd wager. And I'd miss the other parts too, if I'm honest.
One of the younger men opened a case full of whips, metal, and a cage thing with spikes.
Christ. The sort of things they never showed us in intelligence training. Maybe in that advanced course they send the poor bastards to India with.
'Singh knows how to make men talk,' Kamala said, touching something sharp. A shadow seemed to pass over her face, quickly gone, a fleeting memory of her own battles, perhaps. 'Not as fun as my way though.'
Her voice was low, but carried an undeniable authority. 'Leave us,' she commanded them, her eyes holding Singh's until he gave a curt nod and ushered the others out. They left immediately, the door closing with a soft click. Then she slapped him hard.
Bloody hell! Wasn't expecting that. Though I should have, given last time.
'Think this is a fucking game?' she hissed, her face inches from his, the scent of her rage, or fear, sharp in his nostrils. 'They're watching through the wall. *We* need you to act like you mean it if you want to live.' Her voice held a desperate urgency, a warning far deeper than simple anger, a veteran's plea for a rookie. The gold band on her hand seemed to mock him, a reminder of other duties she'd long balanced.
Ah. So we're performing now. Always wanted to be on stage. Just not one where the penalty for forgetting lines is death.
She pushed him to his knees. 'Shirt off. Now.'
He stripped. His movements felt clumsy, too slow. The air in the room, thick with incense and damp, seemed to cling to his suddenly exposed skin. He could feel the cold gaze from the hidden hole in the wall as Kamala shifted a wardrobe aside. *God, they're watching. Every pathetic inch of me.*
Sneaky bastards. Wonder how much they saw two nights ago. Not that it matters now.
She grabbed a riding crop, slapped it against her palm. 'Hands behind. Chest out.'
This wasn't in my briefing either. 'Allow yourself to be beaten by gorgeous Indian revolutionaries.' Though perhaps I should have read the fine print.
First hit landed across his chest. 'Count and say thank you,' she ordered. Her voice was ice, but for a split second, as the crop whistled through the air, he caught a tension in her shoulders, as if she braced for impact herself, a grim professionalism in her stance that spoke of enduring pain.
'One, thank you.' he grunted.
Bloody stings more than I expected. Headmaster's cane had nothing on this.
Second hit caught his stomach. 'Two, thank you.'
By five, sweat poured off him, mingling with the sting. By eight, his breath hitched, not just from the pain. A traitorous warmth spread, and his cock, defiant and unbidden, hardened. *Bloody hell. Even now. A useless, disloyal piece of meat, standing to attention for his own damn torture.* He tried to shift, to hide it, but there was nowhere to go.
'Look at that,' she mocked, running the crop over his bulge. A flicker of something in her dark eyes -- weariness? amusement? -- before her face settled back into a hard mask. The gold band on her finger seemed to judge him, a silent reminder of a life lived far beyond his years. 'Getting off on pain. Filthy Englishman dog.'
Not the pain, darling. You. Though I should probably keep that to myself right now.
Last hit caught his balls.
'Ten, fuck!' he choked out.
Christ alive! That might have just ensured the Hartwell line ends with me.
'Why are you in India?' she demanded, yanking his hair. Her grip was firm, experienced.
To advance my career. To escape Father's disappointment. To find something real. None of which I can say.
He got it now. The game. 'Spy work. Watching rebels.'
'Liar!' Another slap. 'You came for me, didn't you?' Her voice was raw now, betraying a deeper emotion that seemed to surprise even her.
Actually, yes. Though I didn't expect to end up quite so... involved.
She grabbed his jaw. 'Truth.'
'Yes,' he said. 'You were the target.'
'And now?' Nails broke skin.
Now I'm completely buggered. Mission compromised. Personally compromised. Cock definitely compromised.
'Don't know. You've fucked with my head.'
Her fingers closed around him, a brutal, possessive grip. 'This is mine now. All of you.' Her gaze was unnervingly direct, as if assessing not just his body, but his very soul, a practised assessment from someone who knew what true possession meant. The gold band on her finger seemed to claim him, a testament to her own tangled commitments.
Westbrook would have me shipped home in chains if he saw this. My career over in an instant.
She tore at his clothes, fighting with his uniform buttons. 'Get these fucking things off.' Voice rough. Raw. Hungry. Perverse.
Her Majesty's uniform, that. Cost a month's pay. Probably should mention that before she tears it. Though maybe not.
His red jacket crumpled on the floor.
'Make yourself useful Captain.' There was a cutting edge to her voice, a dismissal of his youthful privilege, a knowing jab from an older, more established woman.
And here we go again. Second son of an Earl on his knees for a revolutionary. Father would have a fit. Again, might be worth it.
He buried his face between her legs, a desperate, clumsy lunge. The sudden, overwhelming scent of her, sharp and wet, filled his head, eclipsing every thought of mission or danger. He tasted her, raw and wild, and his world narrowed to this immediate, almost violent sensation.
Fuck. Skin like fire. Biggest risk of my life. Body wants her while my brain counts the ways I could die. Each lie I tell could get me hanged. Can't stop though. The line between spy work and wanting her is gone. Completely gone.
'Like that.' Thighs clamped his head. Couldn't hear shit. 'Fuck, yes Captain.'
First time she's used my rank during this. Interesting.
'Tell me about the fort,' she gasped.
Right. Mission first. Feed her garbage intelligence. Mix enough truth in to make it believable.
He mumbled bullshit into her wet cunt. Wrong guard numbers. Bad passwords. Kept licking her wetness as he talked.
'More,' she demanded, shifting. 'Troops. Where?'
Careful now. Not too detailed. Keep it vague but believable.
He pushed two fingers in her, felt how wet she was. Told more lies while his fingers found the spot that made her yank his hair.
'Northern gate,' he said between licks. 'Four men. Password's 'Blackthorn.'' Total lies.
Northern gate has twelve men minimum. Password changes daily. They'd be shot before getting within thirty yards.
'God, there,' she gasped, grinding harder. Her legs shook. She came, and came hard, with a choked noise, squeezing his fingers.
That's it. Give away nothing. But take everything. This is for England. Somehow.
She moved down, breathing hard. Sweat between her tits. She grabbed his cock roughly.
'Who owns this?' She squeezed his bollocks.
Technically, the Crown. But I don't think that's what she's asking.
'You do,' he panted.
'Prove it.' She slipped a metal cock ring down his shaft. 'No coming till I say.' The gold band on her hand seemed to mock his submission, a symbol of other binds.
What the bloody hell is that? They definitely didn't cover this at Sandhurst. Or Cambridge. Or in Father's awkward talk about 'women of questionable virtue.'
She took just the tip inside her, then stopped.
'Beg.'
Hartwells don't beg. Second son of an Earl doesn't beg. But here I am, about to...
'Please,' he groaned. 'Please let me fuck you.'
'Not good enough.' She pulled away more. 'Tell me you'll betray your country for this cunt.'
It's just words. Just part of the game. Say it and move on. Forgive me, England.
'I'll sell them all out,' he gasped. No pride left. 'Do anything. Just please...'
She slammed down on him suddenly, a gasp tearing from her throat. It wasn't smooth, felt a little awkward, but the sudden, consuming heat was brutal. He was in, all of him, pinned and overwhelmed, the cock ring a band of desperate restraint. *Sweet Christ, this is real. Far too real.*
'Fuck,' she hissed, a guttural sound. Her movements were frantic, almost awkward in their raw hunger, a desperate rhythm building between them. Bodies slapped and stuck with sweat, her hair plastered to her flushed face, gold chains jingling a chaotic counterpoint to their grunts and gasps. It was messy, human, and utterly consuming.
She'd bring him close, then slow. Stop. Start again. Torture.
Can't think straight anymore. Just need to finish. God, what she's doing to me.
'Please,' he finally begged, shameless. 'Need to come. Can't take it.'
She bit his ear hard. 'I can taste it on you,' she whispered. Hot breath. 'Fear. And something that could get us both hanged.'
She's right about that. This is worth the noose for both of us. Least I'd die happy.
Her fingers found the cock ring, pulled it off. 'Do it. Fill me with your traitor British cum. Now!'
For Queen and country. Though I doubt this is what Victoria had in mind.
He came instantly, a desperate, shuddering release, his body jerking violently under her. He emptied into her completely, leaving him breathless, his muscles shaking, and a strange, hollow ache settling deep inside. *Christ. I've never... What the hell just happened?*
She scooped some of the warm, slick mess between them, holding it on her fingers. 'Taste it,' she ordered, her voice low and demanding. He hesitated, a flash of revulsion warring with something else--a strange, perverse curiosity. *Never thought I'd do this. Never thought I'd... Christ, what am I doing?* He opened his mouth, tasting salt, musk, and the utterly, terrifyingly intimate blend of them both.
'Mine,' she said simply. 'Every bit of you.' A statement of weary triumph, not just possession, but perhaps a claim she made to herself as much as to him. The gold band on her finger seemed to seal his fate, and her own.
Not quite, madam. Though close enough to be concerning.
She got off him, didn't care about the wet mess on her thighs. Didn't clean up. Just stood over him, watching him try to breathe again.
Can't show weakness now. Pull yourself together, Hartwell. You're still on mission.
'Uniform,' she said, kicked his jacket. 'Put it on.'
Door opened. Singh came back in, saw James naked and used up.
Bloody hell. Did he watch the whole thing? Keep your face blank, remain stoic James, the grey man.
Singh handed him an envelope. 'Instructions. Memorise. Burn it.' Then, a casual flick of his wrist, Singh added, 'By the way, Captain, we know about yesterday. Colonel Westbrook.'
My blood froze. Westbrook. That meeting was in a root cellar behind three locked doors, a secret handshake and a whispered password away from even the Queen's ears. How the bloody hell could they know?
'Regular report,' I managed, forcing the words past a suddenly dry throat. 'Need to keep up appearances.'
'Of course,' Singh smiled. 'Just make sure your next report doesn't... cause problems.'
Double agent, then. Someone in our ranks. Better not be Westbrook himself. No, couldn't be. Man's a bloody statue. Loyal to a fault.
They were onto him.
Kamala said, 'Remember who you belong to now. You're ours.' Her voice was steady, but her eyes held a depth of understanding that went beyond mere threat, a knowing gaze that encompassed his youth and his inexperience in this brutal world. The gold band on her finger seemed to bind him to her intricate, dangerous life.
Christ, she's good. Better than any actress in London. One minute raw passion, next minute cold as ice.
Her nails scraped over his uniform. 'Next time, maybe I'll let you worship me properly. Want that, Captain? Face buried between my legs till you can't breathe?' There was an almost tired challenge in her tone, as if she knew his answer before he did, and perhaps pitied him for it. The gold band on her hand seemed to mock his desire, a constant reminder of her own complex bonds.
God yes. Though I should probably show some restraint. At least pretend I'm not completely compromised.
His cock twitched despite being drained. She noticed and laughed low, a sound that held little humour, more a sigh of resignation, the sound of an older woman dealing with a predictable young man.
Bloody traitor of a cock. No loyalty to Queen and country.
'So eager,' she murmured. 'Go now, before I show them how well you obey me.'
James walked back to British HQ, the humid air heavy with the scent of jasmine and betrayal. Soon, he'd have to choose: mission or woman. Father always said I'd die for a woman. Just thought he meant marriage, not treason.
Kamala watched from the window, the humid night air doing little to cool the sting of the bruises on her own back. Punishment from when they'd questioned her loyalty, a loyalty she was now questioning herself, the line between performance and treason blurring with every whispered lie. She remembered the fire in Hartwell's eyes, the desperate pleas, the youthful intensity that was both a weapon and a weakness. *He was just a tool. But God, the cost.* The gold band on her finger felt heavy, a reminder of a life outside this room, a life now irrevocably entangled with this young, reckless Englishman, and with the fate of her nation. Two spies. Two sides. Bodies tangled in lies, and a shared secret that could get them both hanged. London called it the Great Game. Nothing sporting about how it ends though. Someone's getting a noose. Just didn't know who yet. Or if it was worth it.