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Sharpe's Sergeant	By : Sable899 Category: S through Z > The Sharpe Books Views: 1683 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Sharp series of books that this fanfiction is written for, nor do I know Sean Bean. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. This story is fiction.

Chapter List
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Chapter 27 Mischief

“Isn’t there any way that I can talk you out of this, Sir?” Smitty pleaded as he turned the Range Rover onto South Boundary Road en route to the Sharpe set at Steinmetz.

“No worries, lad,” Sharpe assured, “T’ain’t like I’m goin’ te kill anybody-eh. I’m jest goin’ te ‘ave a look ‘round. Find out what all the fuss is abaht. Now ‘and me that bloody mobile.”

From the moment Smitty saw the glint in his eyes as they left the club dining room, he knew that Sharpe was up to mischief. Insight as to the nature of that mischief came when he insisted on getting his Rifles uniform back from the laundry before returning to the flat to change and retrieve his sword and pistol. All day Sharpe had been subtly quizzing Smitty about many of the things that someone would need to know in order to pass himself off as Sean. Now, late in the afternoon, as Smitty drove them out to the Steinmetz site, he couldn’t miss the pervasive grin growing on Sharpe’s face.

“Sarge is gonna’ kill me when she finds out,” Smitty whined.

“Yer’ onl-eh followin’ orders, mate,” Sharpe reassured, “I seem to recall that a Colonel outranks a Sergeant. Besides, I’ve ‘ad enough o’ bein’ told what te do. Now, if you don’t want enybod-eh te know that I ain’t yer mate, ye’d best be tellin’ me what I need te know abaht the folks up ahead.”

“Oi, Beano!” Richard Rutherford Moore, the Sharpe series’ long-time armorer and military advisor, called as he approached Sharpe and Smitty as they exited the Range Rover, “Thought you said you weren’t going to make it out here today?”

Smitty had that sickening feeling that hits the stomach whenever a lie is about to be revealed. It was compounded when Sharpe whispered, “His name?” followed by a sly wink. He gave a whispered answer; turning away from what he felt could only be impending disaster and basically tried to make himself scarce.

Sharpe took an immediate liking to the affable historian; a kinship that he hadn’t felt since that last meal he had spent with Harris and Hagman just before the battle for La Haye Saint. First there was a quick refresher on the Baker rifle and the short-barreled Navy pistol which proved totally unnecessary with Rich praising ‘Sean’ for not having gotten rusty. Then there came a short description of the sword fight that was scheduled to be filmed later in the week. Sharpe tolerated Rich schooling him until finally he had his heavy blade in his hand and was squaring off to spar with the practiced Sword Master.

As they faced off, Sharpe and Moore presented weapons in the customary salute, drawing blades upright to touch their foreheads, rapidly swinging out to the sides and swiftly bringing into start positions. The initial crossing of the heavy blades drew out a clear note that cut the air with a piercing ring, alerting everyone who heard it that combat had been joined.

After the initial rush of thrusts and parries, attempting to engage in the first strike, the two men took turns advancing and overtaking, bearing to strike, withdrawing. Each evaluated the other, seeking opportunity, striving to displace the other. Each blow came harder, louder, the blades ringing their anger in the warm spring air. Sharpe stepping and striking with a traverse from his right at the same time as his opponent stepped in to strike on his left side. Sharpe, pushing, driving Moore backwards. Moore, claiming his withdrawal, pulling off to his right with a high strike. Sharpe, charging onwards, bringing forward to strike at the same time. Moore, striking over his sword while stepping out, advancing a tentative step against Sharpe’s onslaught. Sharpe, bearing down with a high traversing middle strike while stepping out. Every deafening engagement drawing more spectators around the circle of their contest. Moore, driving his strike at Sharpe’s head, while Sharpe hit with his traverse to his left ear. Moore, countering the change with two traverse strikes, drawing him into close contact, and his only mistake.

As the hilts of the two sabers met, Sharpe pulled Moore off to his left side, his right leg sweeping the man’s feet from under him, driving him to his knees. With his blade tip pressed to the man’s throat, poised for the killing thrust, Sharpe stayed his hand, engaging Moore’s surprised look with a stern glare.

“Well done, Mister Moore,” Sharpe congratulated, “Do ye’ yield?”

“Aye, I yield.” Sharpe reached to take the man’s forearm to help him to his feet, a broad smile coming over him as the assembled audience applauded before quickly melting away. “Now tell me just who the hell you are, sir,” Moore whispered as they came face to face.

“Ye’ know who I’m not, don’t ye?” Sharpe suggested, drawing a tentative grin from the Sword Master, “and ye’ve likely dreamed o’ meetin’ me fer many a year now.”

“Sean! Hey, Sean!” called a woman’s voice from the other side of the tree-shaded compound.

“Looks like your leading lady finally found you, “ Moore informed with a sly grin as the two men spotted the petite and pretty Meg Ryan walking towards them, her period dress gathered up to prevent tripping, “She’s been gagging for you since your scenes yesterday. A bad case of “Bean Thrall”. Oh, wait! That’s right, that wasn’t you was it, Mister Sharpe?”

“Yer’ a smart man, Mister Moore, one who’s sure to know what’s at stake here,” Sharpe confirmed in a hushed conspiratorial tone, “and we will talk, jest not now. Tell me quick, who is she?”

As they advanced casually across the clearing, with each step Sean’s co-star came into clearer focus; a stunning, golden-haired slip of a girl. No, not a girl, a woman, with a woman’s self-assurance as she approached with effortless grace, head held high, her blue eyes sparkling, laughing lightly as her elaborately curled hair bounced down her back. The thin, clingy fabric of her empire-waist period dress barely covered the nipples of her lusciously rounded breasts. She was intriguing, alluring, and sending off all the signals of a woman on the hunt. He could almost smell her heat. This “Meg” creature was very different from Camden. Camden was fire and ice; Meg brought to mind milk and honey. It had taken stealth and cunning to conquer Camden, Meg brought to mind a trophy to be won at a Sunday shooting match. Thanks, Sean, fer’ tha’ spot of advice on twenty-first century women. Guess I’ll jest ‘ave ta be livin’ up to yer’ reputation, mate, ‘specially since you’ve got Camden all to yersel’ today and gone off Jesus knows where. As fer’ that so-called “Bean Thrall”, I ken yer’ meaning, but a sample would make it all the more clear.

“Oi, lass. Hear tell ye’ve been lookin’ fer me?” Sharpe cheerily asked, lighting up with a huge grin as he deftly slipped his saber into its scabbard. He unfastened the sword belt and, with a wink, a nod and a ‘thank you’ signaling dismissal, handed it off to Moore.

“I hope you don’t mind my interrupting? Everyone’s been telling me how private you are, that you don’t like to socialize much,” Meg apologized, coyly extending her hand for assistance as she stepped over the remains of a decayed tree limb, “Since you’re stuck working with me for the next few months, I was hoping we could at least chat a bit. I really don’t know much about you outside of your work. Although, yesterday’s introduction to that famous butt of yours certainly livened things up around here. ”

“Its aw’right, lass,” Sharpe assured, taking her hand to help her over the branch. Up close, Sharpe was able to appreciate her fresh-faced and freckled natural prettiness. If it weren’t for her lush, full lips, set in a wide grin, and the obvious mischief lurking behind her bright blue eyes, Sharpe could almost be convinced that she was a true innocent. But, there were too many other signs of a more than friendly interest in him when she caught her foot on the branch, causing her to stumble into him and grab onto his shoulder, brushing her cheek against his jaw line. As he gallantly balanced her back onto her feet, she deftly slid a hand down his chest where his unbuttoned jacket and shirt had exposed his tautly-muscled chest and slipped her arm through his, sending a jolt into his groin he couldn’t and didn’t want to ignore.

“How abaht some peace an’ quiet, so’s we can talk a bit?” Sharpe cheekily ventured as she slyly canted her head towards his, “There’s a nice spot o’ woods off over there we can wander ‘round in.”

The woods bordering the clearing where Moore’s armory was set up was typical of the Bavarian pine forests throughout the region. The trees were nicely spaced with ample deer paths, dotted here and there by shrubs ablaze with springtime blossoms. A thick bed of pine needles muffled all sound as they casually strolled while Meg chattered away about nothing in particular. Sharpe had a difficult time following her because, unlike Camden’s pleasant and sultry drawl, Meg’s voice was rather high-pitched and her American accent was clipped, rapid and harsh. He did a lot of nodding and mumbling in agreement in order to avoid actually having to say anything that might not be in keeping with his Sean role-playing. Besides, it would have been hard to get a word in edgewise. It wasn’t until they had gone beyond earshot of the film set compound that the woods began to thicken, the trees getting larger with old oaks mixing in with the pines, that he began to notice her voice starting to soften and deepen into something sounding more like a cat’s purr while her fingers began tracing the black wool lace of his jacket sleeve and the elaborate knot of his tasseled red sash.

Without warning, the deer path they had been drifting along came to an end in a small clearing at the base of an ancient oak tree. The base of the tree was formed into a bowl-shape by a gnarled mass of tree roots growing above the surface of the forest floor. Sharpe pulled Meg round in front to face him as he continued to step on into the hollowed space, backing her up against the coarse bark of the massive trunk. Her breath rasped in her throat as she raised her head, only to have her eyes caught in the green glow of his hooded eyes as his tongue ran teasingly across his lips. The heat in those eyes betrayed their green coolness while his slow smile made him look like a hungry wolf that had just been thrown a piece of raw meat.

Meg had been anticipating this situation the moment she saw the look in his eyes as he suggested they ‘wander ‘round’ the woods. Was it that accent or was it that voice that just made arousal unfurl deep in her gut? She had never heard much about Sean Bean before the opportunity to play opposite him in his signature roll had come along. However, she was fully aware of his status as a legend of the British acting community and knew he was a highly-regarded Hollywood character actor. Their paths had just never crossed before. The only person she knew who had had any contact with him was her old friend Rosie O’Donnell and she totally adored the man. She had even remarked that he was the one man on the entire planet who could turn her straight. Her Google search results almost scared her off of the project; “Saint Sean of the Sacred Arse” indeed! “The Thinking Woman’s Bit of Rough”. “Mister Sex on Legs”. Hordes of “Beanie Babes”. The roll in the hay scenes she had shot with him just the day before had been the most shocking exposure to raw masculine energy she had ever encountered and served merely to inspire the fantasy that was about to become real. His aloofness on set and unwillingness to socialize at the cast dinner had only served to heighten her fantasies. Now, with those perfect mounds of his ass in her hands and the anticipation of his bruising kisses, the only thing on her mind was being fucked senseless by this walking barrel of testosterone.

In an instant, Sharpe’s mind went blank as his baser instinct took full control of him. His knee nudging her legs wide apart, he pressed full against her, his hands grasping at the fabrics of her long layers of skirt, his face burying into the fragrant ribbons of curled, bright blond hair. He could feel the slick warmth of Meg’s tongue as it traced along the skin of his neck right where his feathered hair touched the top of his standing collar. Moving to devour her lush full lips, his tongue plunged past her perfect white teeth to find her tongue waiting to dance with his. He felt a low moan come from deep within her, the vibrations coursing down his spine to take up residence in his hardening cock. With her skirts lifted above her hips, he began gently rolling down the silk knickers that helped keep her costume authentic. Finding no patience for the task, he knotted the flimsy fabric in his hand and neatly ripped them free. Pressing his burgeoning cock against her quivering mound, one hand was free to roam over her snowy breasts heaving above the tight, high waistline while the other went to the nape of her neck to draw her mouth even tighter to his.

After robbing her of breath, he left her mouth to plunge his head into the cleavage of her breasts formed by the crush of the bodice. Planting devouring kisses along the edge of her neckline, his fingers coaxed her nipples out of the confines of her tight bodice to be caressed into hardening points. His other hand moved between her thighs, the fingers searching, to find her desire pulsing hot and hard as he stroked her intimately. Watching her face now, closely, his fingers, deep inside, coaxed gurgling gasps.

“Is this what you want, lass?” Sharpe murmured, his voice liquid lust, “Do I meet wi’ yer’ expectations so far?”

“Guhhhhhh, uhhhhhh…..” came Meg’s muffled reply as his thumb found her throbbing, hardened clit, “shut up and fuck me!”

It seemed like time stood still while Sharpe fumbled with the button flap of his green rifleman’s trousers. Finally, they slid down his thighs, freeing his erect cock to bump against her now-dripping folds. With one smooth thrust, he pushed all the way in. He took a moment, then pulled back and began stroking, ramming with unremitting force, slamming home with every thrust, nailing her to the tree.

“Christ! You’re good!” Meg nearly screamed, and continued to groan with the violence of each thrust as it ground into her, the folds of her hiked-up skirt cushioning her from the rough bark of the old oak tree. Her body arched and she clutched at the smooth, hot flesh of his perfect buns. Never in her life had she been fucked as hard as this. With accomplished precision, he rammed into her like a piston. Satisfaction had tightened his face until he looked fierce. All she could do was respond. She tightened around him as he grunted, thrust hard and lodged himself deep. He bucked against her one last time and she felt the warm ribbons of his cum inside her, his weight pressing heavily into her as he drummed her over the edge with him. From her he drew final gasps and moans to match his own as the spasms of her orgasm rocked through her.

Several long minutes later, their breathing returning to normal, he let himself slide from her wet tunnel as his erection waned. Sharpe’s softened face bore a sly grin as he surveyed Meg’s disheveled state, making her suddenly feel self-conscious, unable to look him in the eye she felt oddly ashamed of her wanton behavior.

“Oi, what’s this? Ye’d not be regrettin’ this now would you lass?” Sharpe teased at the sight of her apparent discomfort.

“No…yes...I don’t know!” Meg answered shakily.

“Well, no worries, lass,” Sharpe assured as he took a step back and began hitching up his trousers, “Ye’ve done awright fer’ yer’self. Got what ye’ came fer’. Bagged the Beano, ye’ ‘ave.”

“Bagged the Beano? Is that what you think?” Meg shot back, her voice beginning to climb with her indignation as she attempted to straighten her long skirt, “You think I’m just one of your obsessed fans out looking for a quick fuck? Something to brag to my friends about?”

“Well, weren’t that the reason fer’ wanting to jest “chat” fer’ a bit?” Sharpe egged her on, “or were it yer’ intention all along te’ show me jest what a dirt-eh, little thing you reall-eh are?”

The slap, when it came, was not totally unexpected and fit well with Sharpe’s plans. Sharpe had every intention of leaving things difficult for Mister Sean Bean when he left the Twenty-first century to return to his own time. It wasn’t that he disliked Sean, quite the contrary. Given a different set of circumstances, they probably would have been good friends, friends with a rivalry between them, a competition to see who could outdo the other. They were the same in spirit, with the same pride and ego, but he sensed a shared mutual respect. Sharpe could only laugh as Meg stormed off back down the deer path, hoisting her skirt to her knees to aid her in her hasty departure. She was just about out of sight when she turned and ran back. He nearly started to make a snide remark about her wanting more when she quickly snatched her torn silk knickers from the ground at his feet. On rising, she glared at him with an evil eye, slapped him again, turned and ran back down the path muttering “asshole” and something about not giving him the satisfaction of a souvenir to brag about.

Smitty finally found the nerve to wander back towards the sword practice area after he stopped hearing the ringing blows of the sword fight. Finding Rich Moore sitting on a gear trunk lovingly fondling Sharpe’s authentic Model 1796 saber, Sharpe was nowhere to be seen. But, he noted, there was no blood on the ground and Moore seemed to be in one piece.

“Sergeant Schmidt, right? From the EOD Team?” quizzed Moore, “You looking for the Colonel?”

“Uhhhhhh……the Colonel?” Smitty tried, looking puzzled.

“Don’t worry, mate,” Moore assured, “I know. Sean stage fights quite well, but the blows I took from this sword here today didn’t come from his hand. I know the secret but not the story behind it. How it’s possible that Richard Sharpe could be alive and well in this time and place. Perhaps you’ll fill me in?”

“Uhhhhhh……where is he now?” Smitty asked with a twinge of trepidation.

“Oh, he went off to have a quick shag with Sean’s costar,” Moore confessed bluntly.

It was just at that moment that Meg burst from the woods, storming across the compound, a furious look on her face and still muttering things like ‘asshole’ and ‘jerk’. When she saw the two men looking at her, she shot them a glare that would freeze the flames of hell and launched into a rant about what an asshole Sean Bean was. Smitty and Rich could only stare after her.

“Wasn’t that……..” Smitty started.

“Yep, that’s Meg Ryan, Sean’s costar,” Rich concluded.

“Oh shit!” Smitty swore, just as he spotted Sharpe coming from the same direction, a huge smile lighting up his face.
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Sharpe's Sergeant