Chapter 22: Thomas Fortescue-Smythe
I was fortunate in the men I’d loved. Warrick Synclaire, my prickly Thorn, had been my first love. We’d grown up together and then had been forced to part, but while our love had grown tepid due to time and distance—and that damned war—I still liked to think he was my friend.
Arch Cutter had been my second. He’d helped me to become a “come on” officer, the kind my men would trust and follow willingly. He’d also taught me more about my inner naughty boy than I’d thought possible, awakening me to the pleasures of a good spanking. He was quite a few years my senior, and I had planned to love him as long as he lived, which hadn’t been nearly long enough.
And then there was Roddy Sayer, the missionary’s brother, who’d sailed down the Ruzizi River with his
