Dewey Lambdin - A Jester’s Fortune

Silent, she'd been, though, stifling the cries she might've made, moaning, whimpering and panting into his neck. Even when her bliss had come, she'd merely stiffened, shuddered, spasmed, with a long hitch of her exhausted breath before relaxing. Later, they'd dared to coo and to chuckle, deep in their throats, barely above whispers near each other's ears. Nestling spent, languidly stroking lovers, 'til her need came to her again, then his… then hers a joyful fourth and last.

They hadn't dared touch since, not with the others aboard to see or hear, not with Lucy peering at them so deuced sharp, as if she had divined all; nor with Peter and Clotworthy garrulous and yarning, still keeping their bachelor hours and sipping far into the night. A glance, two hands brushed as they passed, a demure smile of eternal mystery she bestowed upon him when no one was looking-that was all they managed. It had been so soul-shattering, Lewrie could almost put it down to some laudanum-induced fever-dream, and feared Theoni had used him for cleansing, for a personal Epiphany; one memorable night was all she'd needed, and should he approach her, she'd spurn him and blame it on weakness, a mistake never to be repeated.

'Til now, of course. That fondness in her voice, that smile, so secret and promising…! Perhaps this very evening, after Charlton and his supper. Or in the few days of privacy on-passage to Gibraltar?

Damn fool, damn fool! he sighed to himself, feeling the fork of his breeches go taut in spite of himself; here I nigh swore off, an' look what a mockery I made o' that! He recalled most happily, though, a sight of her slim, womanly form, her chestnut hair flowing down low to her waist, the scent of rosemary and thyme in that hair. So perfectly made, gliding on cat-feet in that candle s dim glow, four or five inches less than his height, and so enfoldable, so well-fit to him!

He came back to reality, and rocked on the balls of his feet on his quarterdeck, gazing out towards the island. A shrill cry, followed by the patter of feet came, as little Michael and one of the ship's boy-servants scampered about in the waist; Tag, it looked like, with Bosun Cony watching their every move, grinning a long-absent fathers grin at their antics, and thinking of his own little Will back in Anglesgreen.

Blocks creaked as the first net of luggage was slung over-side. Lewrie turned to see Sir Malcolm Shockley overseeing its transfer, with his manservant and Midshipman Hyde. And Lucy approaching; smirking!

"My word, Alan," she said, standing by the bulwarks, a tad too close for his liking. "Such a gay dog you've grown to be, sir. I see you're a doting father, the way you cosset that poor lad. But not much of a husband, in truth… do I read the signs aright?" she simpered as she tapped him with her fan and spread it artfully. "What horrid folk we've turned out. A Greek woman, my dear! Taking advantage of her in a fragile moment… though I must own she has a certain attractiveness, a… c'est-a-dire… an animal magnetism, n'est-ce pas? Why, I have a good mind to write your lady-wife to let her know what a lecherous Corinthian she really has for a husband!" She tittered quite gaily.

"You wouldn't dare!" Lewrie growled, though shivering; aye, she'd be the sort t'do it, too! All for bloody-minded spite!

She laughed at his discomfort, matching the pace he took to get a sociably acceptable distance away from her.

"Mean t say…" he amended. "What signs could you possibly read? Or find t'read? There's nought between…" Should've taken that tack first! he told himself.

"Alan…" Lucy cooed, significantly mystifying. "Women know. " "I'm certain you're mistaken in this instance, Lady Lucy. Nor were you ever the sort to cause someone needless grief," he replied. She simpered over her fan for her answer, lashes fluttering. "Don't tease, Lady Lucy." He frowned. "Such letters are known to go both directions. Where was it? Can't recall the exact address, but there was this wine-shop on the Calle del Fabri. Right at a cross-street, the Monte delle Ballotte? First-floor balcony, lots of afternoon sun t'see by… blond lady and a naval officer the spittin' im-"

Her fan whisked to furious life, and her cheeks went crimson. "Point taken, my dear… Alan." She grimaced; quite prettily. "Could've sworn was Fillebrowne, to the life-" "Point taken! Ahem," Lucy repeated, fanning so vigourously she could have bellied out the furled main-course.

"Why?" Lewrie had to ask. Long ago, she'd been a brainless chit, a guileless, bedazzling, innocent nymph. "Your husband's a decent and solid good man. I'd think that'd-"

"As is your Caroline, I'm certain," she allowed. "But decent does not always excite. And you know as well as I what drew each together so long ago on Antigua, Alan. You saw my true, passionate nature and I saw… a bad'un! One of the damme-boys, who'd risked his life in my honour. I never shall be able to resist the bad'uns. There's nary a woman can, were they honest with themselves. I'm certain, too, you have profited from it. Oh, you're such a bad'un, Alan Lewrie. Take ye joy in it. Or… have you already, hmm?" She chuckled huskily.

"People change, we…" He shrugged.

"I'm still of half a mind about you, d'ye see?" she confessed. "There's unfinished business 'tween us. Someday, I feel sure-"

"I think not, Lady Lucy. Truly," he disabused her. "Not even on a lark, not once for curiosity. Imperfect sinner though I be, I'll never 'put horns' on a good man who thinks himself happily wed. We may laugh and jest… but we do not play, d'ye get my meanin'?"

"You fear him?" she asked, gazing at him as if she'd misjudged him all these years.

"I respect him and like him."

"Ah, well, then," she sighed theatrically. "My regards to your dear wife… and to your amour dujour. She really is quite lovely… I s6e why you're so smitten. Her, too. Of course, you'll break her heart. I'll be the soul of decorum at supper, Alan. Adieu!"

He choked off what he might have said to that, watching her go back to the entry-port, sashaying and smug before once more becoming a lash-battering, innocent minx.

And he was still fuming, staring out at the island a moment later, when Sir Malcolm Shockley came up to him, striding slow and formal with a long silver-headed ebony walking-stick tapping time on the deck. Lewrie stiffened as he joined him at the bulwarks, wondering had Lucy said something spiteful, put a flea in his ear 'bout them…

"So this is where it happened," Sir Malcolm said, though, with a grave sadness, as he rested his hands on the cap-rail to look out. "Aye, Sir Malcolm… just there," Lewrie replied. They were anchored two cables off this time, distanced from the horror. The brig was sunk to the level of her upper bulwarks, with only her lower mast-trunks standing, her jib-boom thrusting upwards from her submerged forecastle, and charred as black and crumbly as last year's Yule Log splinter. The two smaller boats had been reduced to blackened piles of kindling and ash, just on the edge of the beach. The reek of burning hung on the air from the stockade and the huts they'd fired, as well-but they still hadn't been quite able to conquer the foetid char-nel stench from that abbatoir, that sick-sweet, roasted odour of putrefaction.

Sir Malcolm had a small pocket-telescope that he brought up to his eye, giving the place about as close an inspection as Alan thought he'd care for. The wheeling gulls and terns, the flutterings…

"Odd emblem, there, Commander Lewrie. That placard on a pole," Sir Malcolm puzzled, lowering his telescope. "A piratical symbol?"

"Grave-marker, sir," Lewrie answered levelly. "For the victims. We couldn't sort 'em out into Christian or Muslim, Albanian or Croat, Greek or Venetian… taken days, had we tried, and the survivors poor help in identifying them. Strangers to each other, and whole families erased? They needed to be in the ground, well… you understand."