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She started towards me, and before asking my brain about it, my legs started backing away. My hands rose pleadingly. ‘No, it’s not that. You’re, um…quite pretty.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Quite?’
‘I meant to say very! Very pretty! Beautiful, in fact.’
‘And ye don’t think I’m ugly?’
‘No! No, not at all.’
‘Oh. Well, well.’ Suddenly, she was grinning again. ‘That problem’s solved, then,’
And she leapt forward. Before I could move so much as a finger, she had me in her clutches.
‘Aww,’ she purred. ‘Good, strong. Now, let’s see…’ And she reached for my crotch. Her fingers searched, once. Then twice. Then a third time. Slowly, her eyes, widening with shock, rose from my nether region to my face.
I did my best to conjure a smile.
‘Surprise, surprise.’
*~*~**~*~*
‘…and when we had all the gold loaded back onto the ship, we returned to London. And here’s where I’ve been ever since, slaving away for His Mightiness, Ambrose the Miserly.’
Clearing my dry throat, I reached for a carafe of water on the bedside table and filled myself a glass. When I was done soothing my parched vocal cords, I looked over at Amy, and caught her wide-eyed stare.
‘Ye…ye dressed up as a man to vote?’
‘Yep.’
‘And that man hired ye off the street as his…’
‘His private secretary. Yes, he did.’ I smirked. ‘Though he was less than pleased when he found out that under my top hat, trousers and waistcoat I wasn’t exactly the strapping young man he thought he’d hired.’
‘But he kept ye. And ever since then, ye’ve bin gallivanting ‘round the world with him, to Egypt and America and God only knows where!’
‘Oh, I didn’t see all of America. Just the South half. Argentina and Brazil, mostly.’
‘And, of course, that’s so little!’ Amy shook her head, still staring. ‘And under that getup, ye’re really…ye ain’t got no…you know.’ Reaching out, she poked between my legs.
‘Hey! Hands off! That’s a restricted area.’
‘Sorry. I just ‘ad to be sure. ‘ad to see whether you’re really…you know.’
‘I bel
ieve the word you’re looking for is “female”.’
She gave a little snort of laughter. Again, she let her incredulous eyes roam over my disguise. I had to admit, I was rather proud of it. I had come a long way since I first slipped into my Uncle Bufford’s dusty Sunday best. I had bought my own clothes, with my own money. And quite nice ones they were, too, if I do say so myself.
‘So ye’ve been running around behind yer guardians’ backs for years, making money of yer own, in the company of men…’
‘With my clothes on!’ I reminded her.
Well, most of the time, anyway.
A giggle escaped her. ‘I believe that! I ain’t sure I could ‘ave pried your clothes off ye with a crowbar! And all this time ye’ve been with ‘im, ye’ve bin pretendin’ to be ‘is secretary?’
I raised my chin. ‘I’m not pretending. I am his secretary.’
