opened.
‘Awright, my lover?’ Clary stood there, a gated lantern in her hand. She was across to him swiftly, the lantern putdown, her hand reaching to caress his forehead. ‘So hot, Master Jack,’ she said. ‘Shall I fetch ’ee some water?’
‘Ale,’ Jack replied. It was early but he only needed to quench his thirst. Small beer would do him no harm. And the water
in this inn had a curious taint.
‘I’ll fetch it right away,’ Clary said, but did not move, her hand still to his head, the other moving to the opening of his
shirt. ‘So hot,’ she said again, in a different way, as her hand slipped inside.
His own came up to meet and hold it. ‘Ale, Clary.’ He let go her hand and she withdrew it reluctantly.
‘Are ye sure, Master Jack?’ She was twisting a curl back under her Abigail’s bonnet. ‘S’ just everyone’s still abed, like,
and …’
He had made a mistake the week before. A relapse in his fever had forced Red Hugh to leave him at the Llandoger Trow tavern
on Bristol Docks and journey only he knew where, vowing to return soon. He’d taken a kiss and, this first course accepted,
the main meal was immediately proposed. He blamed his weakness for the result, unable to resist or, indeed, to take much of
an active part. He was determined not to fall even thus far again. It was not that Clary was unattractive. She was slim at
hip, small but well formed at bosom, with lascivious lips and a low gurgle of a laugh that lured. If she was none too clean,
well, neither was he. As his recovery progressed, he’d been ever more tempted … and then he’d hear that same low gurgle, counterpointed
by many groans, somewhere in the attic rooms above him. And some mornings Clary would appear with a new bonnet or bracelet,
a new tortoiseshell comb for her hair. He didn’t blame her at all, a maid’s wages would be poor. Yet to succumb again did
not seem quite … honourable.
However, Clary took his musing silence as a signal. Her hand returned, lower, and he groaned. Thus encouraged, she lifted
the blanket, her hand sliding down still further,‘Course, if you are still feeling weak, sir, your Clary could be as … obliging as she was afore, if’n … oh, Master Jack!’
Her fingers had slipped all the way down and a big smile came, before head followed hand under the blanket.
‘Clary …’ he said, trying to sound firm. Then both reacted to the cry from the corridor, a heavier tread that made the floorboards
creak. Clary emerged, but was still bent over the bed, when the door opened.
‘What are you about there, girl?’
Mrs Hardcastle, the tavern’s landlady, stood in the doorway, making it seem small. When Jack saw who it was, he sighed. Temptation
came in various forms.
‘Lieutenant Absolute, dear sir! Say the fever has not returned.’ She marched in, elbowing Clary aside. ‘A jug of water, quick
there!’
The maid hovered, reluctant to cede the ground. ‘The master’s asked for ale.’
‘Then why are you still here? Be fast about it, you lazy slut.’ She turned back, did not see the tongue stuck out at her before
Clary left. ‘I heard your cry, dear man, and hastened even thus from my bed.’
Mrs Hardcastle gestured to the loose gown that just contained her. She was built along similar lines to the Widow Simkin,
with a bosom Jack could have rested his pint pot upon. Perhaps it was the way this was so often thrust at him, or the resemblance
to his recent Quaker lover, but Jack had, with more firmness, already declined what was only slightly more subtly on offer.
To begin with, there was a Mr Hardcastle somewhere about, the innkeeper. Yet even if the husband was drunk and unconscious
by supper, it was not that which finally deterred Jack.
With little to do but lie and think, he’d mused on his recent history of both death and love. In a little less than two years,
he’d killed perhaps a dozen men and made love to just two women, a disparity in numbers he
‘Awright, my lover?’ Clary stood there, a gated lantern in her hand. She was across to him swiftly, the lantern putdown, her hand reaching to caress his forehead. ‘So hot, Master Jack,’ she said. ‘Shall I fetch ’ee some water?’
‘Ale,’ Jack replied. It was early but he only needed to quench his thirst. Small beer would do him no harm. And the water
in this inn had a curious taint.
‘I’ll fetch it right away,’ Clary said, but did not move, her hand still to his head, the other moving to the opening of his
shirt. ‘So hot,’ she said again, in a different way, as her hand slipped inside.
His own came up to meet and hold it. ‘Ale, Clary.’ He let go her hand and she withdrew it reluctantly.
‘Are ye sure, Master Jack?’ She was twisting a curl back under her Abigail’s bonnet. ‘S’ just everyone’s still abed, like,
and …’
He had made a mistake the week before. A relapse in his fever had forced Red Hugh to leave him at the Llandoger Trow tavern
on Bristol Docks and journey only he knew where, vowing to return soon. He’d taken a kiss and, this first course accepted,
the main meal was immediately proposed. He blamed his weakness for the result, unable to resist or, indeed, to take much of
an active part. He was determined not to fall even thus far again. It was not that Clary was unattractive. She was slim at
hip, small but well formed at bosom, with lascivious lips and a low gurgle of a laugh that lured. If she was none too clean,
well, neither was he. As his recovery progressed, he’d been ever more tempted … and then he’d hear that same low gurgle, counterpointed
by many groans, somewhere in the attic rooms above him. And some mornings Clary would appear with a new bonnet or bracelet,
a new tortoiseshell comb for her hair. He didn’t blame her at all, a maid’s wages would be poor. Yet to succumb again did
not seem quite … honourable.
However, Clary took his musing silence as a signal. Her hand returned, lower, and he groaned. Thus encouraged, she lifted
the blanket, her hand sliding down still further,‘Course, if you are still feeling weak, sir, your Clary could be as … obliging as she was afore, if’n … oh, Master Jack!’
Her fingers had slipped all the way down and a big smile came, before head followed hand under the blanket.
‘Clary …’ he said, trying to sound firm. Then both reacted to the cry from the corridor, a heavier tread that made the floorboards
creak. Clary emerged, but was still bent over the bed, when the door opened.
‘What are you about there, girl?’
Mrs Hardcastle, the tavern’s landlady, stood in the doorway, making it seem small. When Jack saw who it was, he sighed. Temptation
came in various forms.
‘Lieutenant Absolute, dear sir! Say the fever has not returned.’ She marched in, elbowing Clary aside. ‘A jug of water, quick
there!’
The maid hovered, reluctant to cede the ground. ‘The master’s asked for ale.’
‘Then why are you still here? Be fast about it, you lazy slut.’ She turned back, did not see the tongue stuck out at her before
Clary left. ‘I heard your cry, dear man, and hastened even thus from my bed.’
Mrs Hardcastle gestured to the loose gown that just contained her. She was built along similar lines to the Widow Simkin,
with a bosom Jack could have rested his pint pot upon. Perhaps it was the way this was so often thrust at him, or the resemblance
to his recent Quaker lover, but Jack had, with more firmness, already declined what was only slightly more subtly on offer.
To begin with, there was a Mr Hardcastle somewhere about, the innkeeper. Yet even if the husband was drunk and unconscious
by supper, it was not that which finally deterred Jack.
With little to do but lie and think, he’d mused on his recent history of both death and love. In a little less than two years,
he’d killed perhaps a dozen men and made love to just two women, a disparity in numbers he
Similar Books
