Shannon's freckled nose wrinkled in disgust as she faced for the first time the one with the "warts". Shannon's red hair was billowing wildly over her shoulders and hanging down between her full young breasts, lining her perfect skin with a layer of fiery protection. A nervous incessant flutter in her stomach told her she was in trouble but she was excited too to be confronting the man she hated most of all, Oliver Cromwell.
Her proud chest pushed forward and her chin up in defiance of his disdain would have been a proud and pretty picture for her beloved father back home waiting for his wayward daughter, yet it was a direct challenge to the English puritan who now stood before her. "Do you know girl what we do with traitors?" He drawled lazily, his rotting breath attacking her upturned nose.
Shannon had put bad mushrooms into a pot of the soldiers' stew creating a sickness mayhem that would have pushed back the invasion had all of Ireland tried it...She made herself even taller and tossed her forehead back to meet his gaze, "I am not a traitor to me country sir. It is not I that breached the walls at Drogheda with cannons and slaughtered the people like you would slaughter innocent lambs in a pen. Why only a coward would burn able bodied men in the steeple of a church." Her green eyes looked directly into his dead fish eyes and she smirked in cool bitterness.
Cromwell could not be bested by an Irish whelp and certainly not a female so he slapped her hard on her face. Her face spun to the right and then righted itself only sturdier back onto her neck and she spat on him with the force of a nor'easter. Cromwell grabbed her by the hair and back-handed her across the nose, making it bleed with a fury and then slapped her across the mouth several times. She spit at him again, this time the syrupy redness of her own blood mixed with her saliva and splattered on his face.
Her Irish blood across his pasty face was an improvement she mused as he collected himself, and she was still smiling when he knocked her across the side of the head, leaving her unconscious. Like a chamber pot his men through her out the back door into the afternoon rain still unconscious and safely out of Cromwell's attentions...
Tom clicked to his horse and ran him at a trot to find out what was stumbling down the muddy road. The driving rain made it difficult to see and from 100 paces it looked like a half drowned goat. As he grew closer he realized it was Shannon, a girl from his home town, half dead it seemed to Tom.
Dried blood made a fresco under her nose and chin. Her red hair darkened with rain was plastered and sticking to her neck and chest. Oh god that chest, Tom felt a stirring in his pants. "Jesus Shannon, what happened to ya?" He questioned as he hopped down from his rig and grabbed her elbow, lifting her out of the mud. Shannon fell into his arms, she heaved several more breaths and then grabbed Tom by his shirt and chest, his dark hair curled around her fingertips:
"Tom, Cromwell slapped me in the face and I spit in his fucking eye. He landed two or three good ones spinning me head in circles and I spit in his other fucking eye. He finally relented and threw me out the back door. What's crazy Tom is that I sort of liked it; you know being slapped around by that English prick bastard. Something inside of me quelled up, like never before, I could take his best and it made me wet." Her voice was raspy with exhaustion and lust.
