Scarborough Fair (2 page)

He had set sail from
America
in November 1777 and shortly after his arrival in
France
, the
affaire
with Therese had begun. By April the following year he had sailed out of Camaret and
Ranger
had shown her mettle. After only four days at sea, the brigantine
Dolphin
had fallen to
Ranger
's hooded charm. Jones had scuttled
Dolphin
, reckoning her valueless as a prize, but if his men grumbled, their disappointment was erased two days later with the capture of
Lord Chatham
, a 250-ton ship. His exploits did not end there. After a brush with a king's revenue cutter,
Ranger
sank a Scots coasting schooner off the Mull of Galloway. Later the same day he sank a
Dublin
sloop to prevent the Admiralty in
London
learning his whereabouts, anxious as they were for their men-o'-war to find and destroy
Ranger
before Paul Jones could cause any more havoc in
England
's shipping lanes. After two abortive land raids and a hard won victory over HMS
Drake
, he had taken another brigantine,
Patience
, before a victorious return to
France
.

And then the news he was to lose command of
Ranger
. His orders on leaving
America
had been to take command of a new frigate, which would be bought in
France
by the American Commissioners in
Paris
and then operate under their instructions. That he should use
France
as a base was an openhanded gesture of support by King Louis to the youthful nation, although it well suited his purpose that the Americans were snapping at English throats. But when Paul Jones arrived on French soil, the Commissioners sidestepped and paper shuffled, muffling the possible acquisition of
L'Indien
, a ship at
Amsterdam
on the
Zuider Zee
that Jones thought a capable vessel. While he was at sea in
Ranger
, a political wrangle broke out between the Dutch, French, and Americans. On his return he relinquished command of
Ranger
to Lt. Simpson who received orders to make ready and sail home, then Jones found out
L'Indien
was not to be his.

And now he had no ship at all. Jones squirmed under the caress of the satin sheets at the indignity of it all. If the war was left to soldiers and sailors they would damn well get on with it. Politicians would waggle silver tongues forever. Meanwhile the English were sinking American ships, and with them the hopes of a young and free country.

Angry, he swung his bare feet to the floor, his soles settling into the luxury of the Chinese carpet. He would go and see them again.
Franklin
would help him. God knows, he had promised often enough. Jones trusted him, which was more than he could say for Monsieur Sartine, the French Minister of Marine. That man could sidestep with all the speed and grace of a thoroughbred mare threatened by a puff adder. He stood up abruptly and strode to the chair where he had hung his uniform coat. His breeches, underwear, and white shirt lay neatly folded on the seat.

“Where do you go
Cheri
?”

He turned at Therese's throaty purr. She stood in the doorway, one hand playing idly on the wooden doorjamb. Her powder and lip rouge had been repaired and her body glistened with a light coating of oil. She wore only a gold neck chain he had given her, booty from
Ranger
's voyage. He gazed at the links hanging low over her perfect breasts, then across the gentle swell of her stomach to the lush triangle nestling at the junction of her thighs. Still angry, he jerked his eyes back to her face, trying to hide his approval.

“I go to find a ship.”

She smiled, teasing. “Put your trust in me, my Captain. Sail in me and I will find you a ship.”

“A voyage of delight?” he asked, thinking only a French woman could say something like that and not sound ridiculous.

Her smile tipped the corners of her mouth. “As the Greeks said, we will ride the wine dark sea together.” She shifted her balance onto one foot, accentuating the swell of her hips. The ash blonde wig coupled with the painted-in beauty spot on her left cheek declared her breeding, but her eyes and sensual mouth together with her stance provoked heady images of gutter lust.

Paul Jones felt the heat rising as he toyed with his shirt. Slowly, he slid one arm into the soft cotton sleeve, tearing his eyes away from the threat of imprisonment. “I must have a ship. That is why I came to
France
.”

She soft footed over the carpet to him, standing so close he was forced to look at her. She brushed a hand across his shoulder, stroking his chest as though he was a wild animal that could savage her at any moment. Her fingertips sent delicious shivers through his skin. As she gauged her effect on him, Therese's nimble fingers feathered across to his other shoulder, edging the single shirtsleeve down his arm. It crumpled unnoticed to the floor. His eyes were again captive.

“My ship?”

“You shall have your ship, Captain. I promise it.”

He did not believe her, but at that moment he had other, more urgent needs. He raised a hand to cushion a rounded breast, weighing it for the precious thing it was. The rosebud of a nipple sprang alive at his touch. His nostrils flared with the fragrance of her oiled body and his hands involuntarily began to brush and stroke her sculptured back as she molded against him. When she turned up her face he silenced the pout of her lips with a kiss that reached long and deep into the moist cavern of her mouth. Her hands slid to his waist, talons gently raking, hungry. He broke free of her greedy lips and flung his head back, laughter bubbling in his throat.

“Therese, you have the way, my lady.”

She squinted a little, her dark eyes sparkling at the victory within her grasp. “Do you yield, Captain?”

“Yield?” His laughter was a joyous ring. He scooped her into his arms, took three steps, and then lowered her onto the rumpled sheets of the bed. Playfully, she pulled the satin across her hips, gripping the material tightly. He hung over her, plumbing the mysterious depths of her eyes for long seconds. “One day, Therese, your husband will come home at the wrong time, then I will never get a ship. And you will no longer have a husband.”

She smiled knowingly. “But not today. Today he is at the ministry, fighting for you.”

“And I am here, fighting for you?”

She tilted her head back arrogantly, clinging to the protection of the sheet. “I repeat. Do you yield, Captain?”

His eyes glinted mischievously then he took his weight on one hand while the other ripped away the sheet to expose her.

“Yield?” he grinned. “I have not yet begun to fight!”

***

The knocking at the door was low but insistent.

John Paul Jones was instantly alert. He freed himself from the tangle of Therese's sleepy arms to sit bolt upright. “Who in God's name is that?” he demanded in a whisper.

Therese made a face. “My chambermaid, I think.”

“And if it is not?”

She came awake then, aware of their compromising position, but still sure of the caller. She curled an arm about his neck and pulled him down to her face, eyes wide. “My gallant Captain! Caught in
flagrante delicto
with the lady of the house!” She covered her mouth with a hand. “Oh the shame! We shall be the scandal of
Paris
.”

He shrugged her away angrily, springing from the bed to pluck his shirt from the floor where it had fallen an hour earlier.

“If we are caught, my Captain, I shall tell them it was worth it,” she smiled, amused.

“Enough of your jokes,” he replied in a fierce whisper.

The knocking resumed, louder than before. Therese's smile faded. She waved to the side chamber that served as a bathroom. “In there quickly, and do not forget your shoes.”

Paul Jones had already begun moving before she finished speaking. He stopped in mid stride, arms full of clothes as he looked back at his buckled shoes still resting beneath the chair. With a muttered curse he shifted his bundle under one arm before scampering back to grab the offending shoes. He was aware of how ludicrous he must look while she lay serenely composed in bed. As he squeezed into the bathroom he heard her call, then came the sound of the door opening.

“Excuse me, Madame,” the chambermaid apologized, “but an important dispatch has been delivered for Captain Jones.”

“From whence? And why do you come to tell me?” Therese demanded in the haughty voice she reserved for the servants.

“From the Minister of Marine, Madame. The captain is not to be found in either the hotel or the grounds. I thought perhaps Madame might know his whereabouts.” The implication was plain enough as she paused, and Paul Jones thought he detected a hint of conspiratorial amusement in the girl's voice as she continued. “But of course, Madame, I did not know you were in be…resting. Excuse my interruption. I will look elsewhere.” She turned to leave but halted at a wave of Therese's hand.

“Did I excuse you?”

“No, Madame.”

“Where is this dispatch?”

“An officer of the American Navy brought it. He is in the lobby downstairs. What shall I tell him?”

“Tell him he is to wait until the captain is found. Very well, you may go.”

Paul Jones heard the door close as he tucked his shirt into his breeches. He stepped into his shoes and after a glance to make sure his stockings were straight, he ventured back into the bedroom. He couldn't help thinking how perfect Therese looked, naked to the waist, dominating the room from the center of the vast bed.

“You heard, Cheri?”

He nodded, examining his profile in the mirror over her dressing table. His hazel eyes picked out the long strands of chestnut hair that had escaped his queue to lie ruffled along a cheek. “I must see what news has come.” He fussed with the vagrant locks, catching, then impressing them into captivity. Satisfied, he pulled on his blue uniform jacket, cursorily brushing at the gold piping and epaulets lest any more of his hair had escaped. When the last button was fastened he belted on his sword scabbard before picking up his tricorn hat.

“I told you my husband would make you happy today,” she cooed from the bed as though her earlier promise had been magically fulfilled.

“As happy as his wife makes me,” he flattered, thinking only of the dispatch. He took one last look at his high cheekbones in the mirror, searching for traces of her powder but found nothing. He strode quickly to the bed where she put up her cheek to be kissed, a hand playfully tickling his thigh. “I must go.”

“I hope you have your ship, Captain, but I hope she is not as pretty as me,” she sulked.

Always needing compliments. “Nothing could equal your rigging,” he smiled, hiding the lie. She accepted his words at face value, no doubt reluctant to believe otherwise. Her pout softened into a smile to match his own.

“Go quickly, before I refuse to let you leave.”

“
Adieu
,” he said.

Her smile disappeared as she shook her head. “Your French. That means goodbye. I prefer
Au revoir
, till I see you again.”

“Yes,” he said, closing the door behind him. His French wasn't that bad. And he did not think she had missed the point.

***

A young man in an American uniform rose from a chair to meet him as he strode into the lobby. The midshipman was stockily built, his long sideburns giving the impression of a wealthy farmer. Only his threadbare uniform and badly scuffed shoes destroyed the illusion. He looked only a few years junior to John Paul Jones's own thirty years. An honest looking young man, Jones liked him instinctively. That hopefully he was the bearer of good news led him to ignore the scruffy uniform as he eyed him expectantly.

“Midshipman Dale, sir, with a dispatch from the Minister of Marine.” He stood stiffly to attention, the package offered.

The captain raised an eyebrow. “I may not be whoever you seek.”

For a moment Dale looked flustered. “The dispatch is for Captain Jones, and you are he, sir. I have seen you in the office of the Commissioners, and every American sailor in
France
knows who you are, sir.”

“I'm glad somebody does, even if it's only the lower decks,” Jones mumbled. Dale frowned, but the captain brushed the remark aside. “Give me it.” He opened the canvas bag and used his thumbnail to split the wax seal imprinted with the Commissioners' stamp. He skimmed the parchment quickly. It was there. Therese hadn't lied after all. Her husband had been working on his behalf. And
Franklin
too. A ship.
A ship.
He refolded the sheet and pushed it back in the bag, then looked at the young officer who was watching him thoughtfully. “Midshipman Dale, you said?”