Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [60]
Dorry almost dragged him to the door. Outside she coaxed him into an alley that ran up the side of the inn to the cottages behind. After a few yards she stopped, placed her basket by her feet, then leaned back against the wall. He could barely see her eyes flashing, her face framed by the wild tangle of chestnut hair.
“Is it true Scarboro’ lads’re better kissers than Whitby ’uns?”
Before he could speak she silenced his lips with a finger. “Don’t talk, Beauty, kiss me.” He faltered so she took his face between her hands and pressed her lips to his before he could pull away. “How’s that?” she asked. “Am I better than the Scarboro’ girls? Am I a better kisser?”
He stuttered, suffering a pang of guilt about Rose, left behind in Scarborough. Why should Rose always be so reluctant when he wanted to kiss her, yet this girl was kissing him with barely any invitation? “I d-don’t know.”
Dorry grinned. “Try this then.” She kissed him more slowly, teeth parting to allow her tongue to flick quickly around the edges of his mouth before her lips fused with his. Every curve of her body flattened against him. His imagination soared beyond reality into fantasy. Rose was banished like a wraith as a mist clouded his brain, his hands moving to mold Dorry to him. Eyes squeezed tight, he kissed her as best he knew until she broke away, both panting.
“What do you think now, Beauty?” she teased, taking his hand to slip inside her blouse. Her breast was soft and warm in the palm of his hand and she could feel his immediate response where their bodies pressed together. She eased a leg between his, working against him.
“Again, Beauty,” she whispered hoarsely, seeking his mouth, her breath washing hot against his face. Jackie gave in to it, his whole world shut behind his eyelids, tingling nerves concentrated in his searching, caressing hands. She worked at him until he was on fire, knees weak, a hammering in his chest. He wanted, needed more, anything and everything she had to give him.
“Again, Beauty,” a voice mimicked from the mouth of the alley. Billy and two of his friends stood framed in the streetlight, making coarse remarks and lewd gestures.
“Hop it,” Jackie croaked, voice choked by emotion, hands unwilling to release the promise of her flesh.
“Come on, Beauty, tide’s turned. We’re away off now. Howay lad, plenty more of that when you get back.”
Her arms fell. “You go,” she whispered. “I’ll be here when you come ashore. Anytime you come ashore.” She touched his face gently in the darkness. He held her at arm’s length for a moment then snatched a quick kiss before wrenching himself away.
They taunted him all the way down to where Billy Rudd’s sloop lay in the harbor. Speedwell rose and fell at her mooring, gear stacked ready on her deck, the smell of fresh bait almost smothered by the blanket thrown out by the oil factories. Billy lit a lantern to act as a running light and hung it from the mast as Robin and Ian cast off.
“Grab an oar, Jackie,” his cousin grinned, “and let off some of that steam. I’ll hoist t’mainsail when we’re clear.” Speedwell eased out of her berth into open water, falling oars splashing loud in the darkness. “We’ll go off Upgang for a spell then down to Baytown to lift the pots at first light,” Billy said, his strong arms hauling up the canvas as they smoothed between the piers to the sea. “What d’you think of our Dorry, lad?”
Jackie grunted as he stowed his oar.
“Got you going, eh? You get your sixpence worth?”
Jackie screwed up his eyes, trying to see Billy’s face. “What d’you mean, sixpence worth?”
Billy laughed. “Dorry always asks for a silver sixpence. Mind you, if she likes you, then mebbe only a threepenny bit.”
“Sixpence,” Jackie said. “She asked me for nothing.”
Billy stopped hauling. “Nothing? Well, bugger me.”
In the bows it was Robin and Ian’s turn to laugh.
***
“You too, Cottineau?” Paul Jones leaned forward, supporting his weight on the desktop as he glared at the Frenchman.