Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [35]
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