Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [33]
The mare’s hooves clattered into the yard as Paul Jones hauled back on the reins. The big bay rattled the bit between her teeth, mouth flecked with foam. Dark streaks were cut through the lather on her shoulders where his hands had worked. Slipping his feet from the stirrups, he swung a leg over to drop lightly onto the cobblestones. He held the bay’s restless head, her warm breath washing over him as he stroked her velvet muzzle. She began to stamp, cramp’s gnarled fingers snatching at her hind legs. For the barest of moments he felt a great kinship with the horse. They had both enjoyed the hard ride, each perhaps briefly escaping their fetters. The flood of emotion was momentary, Jones recognizing it for an illusion. We are all truly alone, he thought, no matter how much anybody thinks they know us, or we know them.
Footsteps restored reality. A groom emerged from the stable to take the bay mare. “Demain, M’sieur, Tomorrow, sir?” the lad asked, arm wrenched as the big bay tossed her head, eyes on her rider.
“Oui, demain, Yes, tomorrow,” the American replied, holding out a silver coin. As the groom palmed the tip and touched his cap in thanks, Paul Jones patted the horse’s neck, then strode into the main building. Anticipating his breakfast, he cursorily returned the concierge’s “Good-day” as he mounted the stairs. The early morning ride had sharpened his appetite, an edge to be deliciously blunted by warm croissants and steaming coffee.
His cheeks were still tingling from the bite of the wind when he walked along the landing gallery and opened the door of his room. He froze, riding crop dangling from his hand. He was staring down the maw of a loaded pistol.
In the silence the metal click of the hammer being cocked was deafening.
CHAPTER 6
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