Flashman And The Tiger

"Pretty’s ten a penny, I said desirable. Anyway, she’s only a maid, not a princess … and she don’t want anything from me."

She sat farther back in her chair, considering me as she toyed with her hair. "And I do," says she. "In fact, Sir Harry, each of us wants something from the other, do we not?" She glanced at the bottle she’d taken from the tray, standing above the basin. "Shall we begin our … negotiation with a glass of wine?"

I rose to fill a couple of glasses, and when we’d sipped she set hers on the little stand by the window, crossed her legs beneath the coat, tossed back her golden mane, and looked me in the eye, no longer smiling, but not unfriendly either. I hunkered down again—believe it or not, it puts you at an advantage; women don’t care to have a great hairy man crouched at their feet, prepared to spring.

"Stefan Blowitz tells me that you hold a secret which I wish to know," says she, "and that you are willing to—"

"Pardon, highness … a secret Prince Bismarck wants to know." "Very true." She inclined her head. "By the way, I expect `highness' from inferiors. To friends, I am Kralta."

"Honoured, I’m sure—I’m Harry. So first, tell me—why should busy Otto, with the cares of the world on his back, want to know an old secret that ain’t worth a button?"

"I do not know," says she simply. "He did not tell me. And he is not a man of whom one asks reasons."

"Not even if one is on intimate terms with him?" She didn’t even blink, let alone blush. "Come now, Kralta, we both know Bismarck and his fine clockwork mind. He don’t ask damfool questions—and this one couldn’t be sillier—without an excellent reason. Can’t you even guess what it might be?"

She took a sip of wine. "You have said it yourself … Harry. His fine clockwork mind. He must know all. If he has another reason I do not know it."

And wouldn’t tell if she did. Well, it made no odds now, as I contemplated the perfect buttermilk skin and silken tresses. It was time to get to the meat of the matter.

"Well, it don’t signify. But I beg your pardon—I interrupted. You were saying, about Blowitz … ?"

"He said that if I asked you how the Berlin Treaty was obtained … you could tell me."

"Absolutely. Happy to oblige. "

It surprised her. "Now?"

"Well, presently. Let’s say … in Vienna."

"On your word of honour?"

"Cross my heart. Never fear, I’m an authority on honour."

She hesitated. "And in the meantime?" I just grinned at her, wicked-Flashy-like, and she sat back in her chair, giving me a long look with a pout to her lower lip that set my mouth watering. "I see. There is a price."

"Fair exchange, I’d call it," says I, enjoying myself, and to avoid meeting my eye she turned her head aside, displaying the imperious brood-mare profile. Her voice was calm and quiet.

"You think it fair … to exact a price? To take advantage of a helpless woman? Perhaps you are one of those men—I suppose I must call them that—who enjoy forcing a woman to humiliate herself—"

"Aye, I’m a cruel swine, ain’t I just? And you’re about as helpless as the Prussian Army."

"But I am expected to ask your terms, to plead, perhaps—" "D’you need to ask them?"

She was still for a moment, and then she sighed, rose from her chair, still clasping the fur collar beneath her chin, and looked down at me with that cool superior smile.

"Not for a moment," says she, and turning her back she shrugged the coat to the floor and stood there bare as a babe. I overbalanced and sat staring at the long shapely legs, the plump buttocks, the wasp waist, and the alabaster perfection of the smooth strong back, all revealed so unexpected. She stirred her rump, and as I reached out, clutching joyfully, she glanced complacently over her shoulder.

"A fair exchange. n’est-ce vas?"

•   •   •

And I have to own that it was. That sudden shedding of her clobber just when she’d been pretending that she’d have to be coaxed or ravished, is the kind of lecherous trick that wins my heart every time, and when we came to grips she behaved like the demented stoat aforesaid. Not as skilful as many, perhaps (though you must make allowances for the limited space in a sleeping berth), but a good bruising rough-rider, full of running, and as heartily selfish as royal fillies invariably are, intent on nothing but their own pleasure, which suits me admirably: there’s nothing like voracity in the fair sex, especially when she’s as strong as a bullock, which Kralta was. Not unlike that gigantic Chinese brigandess who half-killed me on the road to Nanking, but civilised, you understand, and willing to chat afterwards, in a frank, easy way which you’d not have expected from her lofty style and figurehead.