Scarborough Fair (12 page)

In the silence the metal click of the hammer being cocked was deafening.

The bore of the pistol yawned as wide as a well. The aim on his chest never faltered, the weapon's butt clenched in her two tiny fists. Her angel face had never appeared more solemn or more dangerous. As he raised his eyes from the threat posed by the pistol, he saw her raise an eyebrow. As he stared, her pursed lips flattened out into a thin line then slowly curled up at the corners until he could see the white of her teeth, her pink tongue peeping out like a puppy's.

Suddenly she laughed, head thrown back. She pulled her hands close to her bosom, flexing her wrists so the pistol pointed at the ceiling.

“Therese?” He relaxed, shaking his head as he moved toward her, smiling to hide the chill that had gripped his heart during those long seconds in the pistol's sights. He snatched the weapon from her, then crossed to the bureau, uncocking the action before dropping it into a drawer.

“
Mon
Dieu
, My God, you should see your face,” she laughed. “My Captain, you are always so serious.”

He had little patience, voice cold. “Never point a pistol at anybody unless you mean to use it.”

She fluttered a hand, smile dying. “You think it was a joke? Perhaps I did mean to shoot you. You deserve it.”

“Why, for God's sake?”

Her smile was sweet but she waggled a finger in rebuke. She picked up the letter she had sent to
Bonhomme
Richard
on the day the squadron anchored. He would never know how much she had longed for his return, her sojourn in
Lorient
only endured with the promise of seeing him again. Holding it up, she turned the envelope over as if to remind him the seal had not been broken.

“You have been back for two weeks.”

“You've been through the documents on my desk? They are none of your business.”

She flicked the envelope. “This is, and as you chose not to read it…” She tore the letter into small pieces and let them flutter like confetti to the floor.

He stood by the bureau and watched without comment. As usual, she was immaculately dressed, every item carefully chosen to flatter her best features or disguise her worst. If only she could wear something to disguise her character, he thought. Her childish act did nothing to rouse his anger. He realized now she was incapable of that, not by her deeds. Only fear of the pistol had been able to accomplish that. He had loaded it himself, double shotted, the way he had always loaded it. He had seen what damage double shot could do.

He was aware of her perfume now. It filled the whole room, invading his nostrils with memories of warm beds and even warmer arms, those secret places of a woman and rose-petal flesh, soft working lips and sharp teeth, whispered words of love and eager encouragement, the urgency to assuage his body's hunger and the pleasure of gratifying hers…But as he looked at her, the heat of those recollections cooled until they meant little. She failed to stir him.

“But I did not come to fight,
Cheri
,” she whispered, her voice stolen by contrition, eyes falling to her hands resting in her lap. “I traveled many hours to be with you and make you happy.” She lifted her gaze to beam a sunshine smile that she knew presented her at her prettiest. She maintained it, frozen through his silence, then began to peel her white gloves carefully from jeweled fingers. She made the stripping of them appear as though she was baring the most intimate parts of her body.

“Therese,” he began, “I have many things to do. Just because I am not on board my ship does not mean my squadron can get along without me. But first, my breakfast will be arriving at any moment and I am hungry.”

“I am hungry, too,” she purred, “but not for food.” Her eyes shone with a familiar spark of devilry.

“
Lorient
is a small town,” he continued, ignoring her invitation, “and your husband is here.”

She shrugged. “I know. I came here to be with him, did I not, like a dutiful little wife. As for idle gossip, the concierge thinks you and I are having a business meeting. I put enough livres into his pockets to convince him of that.”

“And the maid? The groom always passes a message when I arrive back from my morning ride.”

Her hands fluttered again. “Always you are frightened of the maids? I remember in
Paris
…”

He waved her conversation aside. “Nevertheless, she will be here at any moment…”

It was Therese's turn to interrupt. “I think not. The concierge was impressed about the importance of our business meeting, so he arranged your breakfast to arrive five minutes after I leave.”

“Do you have an answer for everything?”

She rose from her seat and walked seductively across the room to stand in front of him. She looked up, mouth working, well aware he had an excellent view of the valley between her breasts. “Well, I traveled a long way. How much longer do I have to wait for my Captain, sorry Commodore, to kiss me and hold me in his arms?”

He sighed, placing his hands on her shoulders then moved her gently to one side before he walked away to sit down at the other side of the room. “I'm sorry, Therese, but I have not been well, and I tire easily. These last few weeks…”

She followed him and picked up her gloves from the desk. “You are being gallant, John Paul, but do not patronize me. I can see through you. There is another woman to take care of your needs, yes? What is she that I am not? Is she prettier? Is she better in bed?”

He shook his head. “There is no other woman.”

There was only disbelief written on her face underlain by anger. “Is she…is she…” she baulked at the word, “…Is she younger than me?”

He would have laughed, but did not wish to be cruel. Instead, he indulged her with a half smile of regret. “The only mistress I serve, Therese, is older than you. Your husband pays for her and she lies at anchor out in the bay.” He gestured to the window, although
Bonhomme
Richard
was obscured by the cluster of fishermen's cottages between the hotel and the harbor. “She is the only mistress I have.”

She was not ready to believe him but she brightened. “Then it is not over between us?”

He looked her squarely in the eye. “I am tired, Therese. I came ashore to rest, too tired to do you the justice you deserve from a man.”

The compliment did little to soften her petulance. “I bid you
adieu
, then Commodore,” she said, sweeping toward the door in a rustle of taffeta, head held high, long silvered curls of her wig brushing delicate shoulders. She turned the handle, paused, her voice brittle. “Remember, Commodore, it was I who got you your ship and it is my husband who is your paymaster. If I chose, I could make life difficult for you.”

He tried to smile. “I would like to think we shall remain friends. If it wasn't for my illness…” His voice trailed away. She was gone.

Alone, relief flooded through him as he sat silently in the chair, not even rising to close the door. He turned to gaze out of the window with its view of guano-dotted roofs where swirling gulls had left their mark. Despair clawed him. And what will I leave, he wondered. A rotten hulk of a ship at the bottom of some ocean? Scavengers to pick my bones? He snorted in an effort to expel his depression. Damn that woman. Her perfume was still strong in the room. If only she could be a willing body shrouded in that delicious fragrance, but with no personality, no thought of meddling to complicate his life. There was no denying there had been a moment there when he had wanted her badly. Not only to enjoy her, but for the comfort of her in bed beside him. Someone to reach out and touch. Someone to kill the solitude that gnawed at his bones like the winter wind. If that was at all possible. And if not permanently, at least for a little while…

“M'sieur?”

He came back to reality with a start. “What?”

The maid looked worried by his frown. “Your breakfast, M'sieur. You would like it now? I was told to wait until your visitor had left.”

“Yes, of course.” He indicated the desk. As she placed the silver tray in front of him she leaned close. Her raven hair smelt fresh and only the barest trace of scent clung to her. He savored her nearness for the moment it took her to serve him. When she stood back upright he could see her face was scrubbed to a tanned glow, her eyes shining discs with no hint of guile in the dark pupils. “Are you from the country?”

“Yes, sir,” she answered, hands folded at her waist. The posture inadvertently accentuated her full breasts and his eyes drifted from them to her legs. Shapely. As he looked back to her face he saw she had turned slightly to gaze out of the window. Her throat looked soft and inviting. As the thoughts raced through his mind, her glance returned to his face. For a second he wondered if he saw invitation in her eyes, then discarded the notion as a sign of his own vanity.

“Is there anything else M'sieur would like?”

Was there a smile behind the question? A tease, an offering, a challenge? He stared until her eyes darted sideways, her hands betraying her nervousness.

“No, thank you. You may go.”

His stare had chilled her, but dismissal gave her purpose. Her restless hands tugged the edge of her skirt as she curtsied before she turned and fled. Paul Jones stared at the door for a long time before he reached for the coffeepot.

His hand was shaking.

***

The wind was a surprise. Although the late July day was sunny, Paul Jones pulled his cloak tightly around his shoulders as he sat in the stern sheets of the jolly boat. The saber wind and the pitching of the boat did little to aid his humor as the crew put their backs into rowing out into
Lorient
's bay. He craned his neck as
Bonhomme Richard
loomed above him, her head into the wind, the new bowsprit pointing the way over the incoming waves. Even from a distance he could hear loose canvas flapping and the crack of a rope, sharp against the background of the rigging's wind-ruffled moans and the creaking of sea-weary timbers. There were voices too but he could not make out individual words. Why hadn't one of the junior officers attended to the slapping canvas, and if not, then why was Lt. Dale neglecting the ship?

It seemed there was something badly wrong. A sideways glance at Midshipman Fanning who had come to fetch him from the hotel only heightened his suspicions. The boy could not sit still, flicking imaginary fluff from his white breeches, shuffling as though the discomfort of a ship's boat was a new experience. Fanning's eyes skittered from
Richard
's towering masts, yards full of dormant sails down to the battened gun ports of her broadside before coming to rest on his commodore. When he met Paul Jones's gaze he became more agitated, nervous at being caught nervous.

What could have been so urgent to induce Richard Dale to request his presence that afternoon when he was well aware the commodore was due to repair on board the following morning? The midshipman offered no excuse, only Dale's request, an
urgent
request. Paul Jones looked back at the land where the houses on the seafront looked sturdy and inviting. He thought wistfully of his comfortable room, the appetizing meals prepared by the hotelier's wife and of the shy glances of the raven-haired chambermaid. For a moment he wished himself back there. He knew he still looked pale and haggard, hair lankly drawn back into a queue. The illness had hung about his shoulders during the weeks ashore and now his attention was again demanded by the squadron.

His sigh was lost in the wind.

At the gangway a flustered Richard Dale stood surrounded by heavily armed marines, their scarlet and gold coats gaudy in the sunshine. Men were clustered all over the weather deck in groups, some penned by grim faced marines with bayonets mounted, the polished steel glinting threats. Prisoners, clothes torn and spattered with blood were haranguing their captors, spitting and sneering in an attempt to break the soldiers' immobile expressions. Groups of free sailors hurled abuse at the prisoners' waving fists, their voices lost in the jumble of international tongues.

Irrationally, Paul Jones thought how strange it was that the first words of any new language the sailors learned were always the crudest of swearwords. He blinked the notion away as the marine officer, Colonel de Chamillard, stalked toward the rowdiest group of sailors, barking staccato orders to the half a dozen men who followed in his footsteps. Immediately, the marines broke ranks to form a line abreast, muskets tilted into the advance position. He spat another order and they moved forward, two paces then pause, driving the bawling crew at bayonet point in a ragged retreat toward the bows.

“What in God's name is going on here?” Paul Jones demanded.

“Mutiny, sir.”

“Mutiny!” The commodore bellowed the word, then coughed, shoulders wracking, a hand to his mouth. He had hoped never again to hear that worst of words on one of his ships. It always comes back to haunt me, he thought bitterly.

“All under control now, sir.”