Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [3]
“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