Hmm? Why was she thinking about cheese?
"Perhaps a little local goats cheese on local and very fresh bread?" offered the sergeant. "Yum, yum, very nice. I've got some chives on the side, if you care to dip."
The world swam back into focus. Whoa! How much alcohol was in this wine? She tasted it again. Yes, part of the red bite to it was from alcohol, for sure--but she'd tasted drinks heavily laced with alcohol and this absolutely did not taste like one of those.
"Sounds nice," she said.
No, she wasn't a cheese fan, but neither was she impolite.
The stuff was white. And Debussy had spread it on a white and crusty slice of bread. In the sun, and yes, the candlelight that she now noticed was playing over the table from the mantelpiece, reflected back from a mirror, she could see how absolutely luscious it looked. Rich and creamy, the goat cheese lay on the bread as though it belonged there! Oh, how a food photographer of the 21st century would love to snap this picture! She took the slice and bit a large portion of it.
Her eyebrows rose.
"Sergeant," she said. "Sergeant, that is absolutely delicious!
In fact, she'd had goat's cheese before, but perhaps not as fresh as this.
"I'm happy you like it. It's fabulous washed back with some more wine."
Janice needed no further encouragement. She drank more wine.
"Nice!"
The bread had been toasty and crusty and yet soft in the center. It had all simply melted in her mouth.
"Have some more!"
In took only two more bites and the bread and cheese were gone.
She drank the wine, and somehow by the time she was done--the wine was all gone.
"Allow me to refill your glass," said Debussy. "And don't worry. We have more bottles of this stuff. I myself have some problem opening wine bottles. One of the reasons I keep my corporal friend around. I've never seen him fail with a bottle of wine."
She found herself offering up her glass, and watching the flush of red pour into it.
How fascinating!
When the glass was full--and my!--how capable the sergeant was--he was able to fill the glass all the way to the brim! ...when the glass was full, she spilled a little as she lifted it to her lips, but it didn't really matter as she got a very nice gulp down. This time it wasn't anywhere near so bitter. It went down easily, with a nice blueberry finish. Warmth spread from her abdomen up and out, stomach to toes.
She smiled.
"A nice wine!"
"Aye--and fairly new! Surprising. Not aged much." The sergeant quaffed a bit of his own.
"But you were telling me about the corporal."
"Oh, right, right. I was. You see, I met him in America! I was stationed there in a good-will army to help General Washington and company. I met him about a month before the battle of Yorktown."
"Yes, the battle that made the British realize they couldn't hold on to the colonies."
"That's right. Old Cornwallis--well, nailed that fatuous bugger, didn't it? But of course it was the French navy that kept the British navy away from the scene and made it all possible."
"Yes. It's coming back to me."
"Coming back?"
"I'm young and female..."
"I've noticed." That leer.
"I'm young and female," Janice repeated. "But I read well. And I read history. So these things I have read."
Sergeant Debussy seemed to ignore this. He instead lunged back into the story.
"Yes. I was stationed near Williamsburg. And I met this country lad." His eyes grew a bit glazed as he looked back through history. "Yes, a big strapping 15-year old he was, and he was burning to fight. A Virginian! And he knew a bit of French, because his father had fought in the French and Indian wars and had been captured by us. Treated well, let go--the father was, and became, a bit of a Francophile. In any case, the lad ran away from home and the Americans wouldn’t have him--too young they said. So he came to us and I took one look at him, and I said, ‘Bon jour!’"
"So I took him on as an assistant. Yeah, yeah--this big lad could carry my rifle and polish my boots and such. Well, he knew some French and I knew some English and we got on like a house of fire. After the battle, he was almost 16 anyway. I went back to his father and gave the fellow some money and promised to educate his son. In turn, he would become a member of the French Army. Well, the Americans loved us French then, and no bloody wonder, so I got the lad. I mean, he was happy to go, and the father had about ten other sons, so there wasn't much of a loss. All gain for a farmer, that packet of gold I gave him. And thus did our association begin." He held up a boot. "Ever see such well-shined boots, Janice?"
"Nicely done."
"And you’ll see--and taste—soon, that the lad cooks up a storm as well." The sergeant slapped his gut.
"So he's always been your assistant--"
"Oh he's not a slave! He has plenty of money and time off, believe me. He has a good life. And he's enjoyed his life here in France and about the world." Debussy twisted around. "Haven't you, lad?"
"Aye! Aye!" came the reply from the kitchen.
"And three times he's returned to visit the family in Virginia. Once I ordered it--during the Terror, don't you know, America was the best place to be. I stayed, but kept low, I'll tell you." Debussy shook his head. "I tell you, I'm no fan of some of the aristocracy, but they guillotined some good friends of mine, they did. Glad that's over and done with and we have a good government and a great leader now."
"Voila!" said Thomas.
The lad came in, holding a steaming tureen by a pair of handles.
He set it down before them, and picked up a ladle. Janice had noticed the soup bowls set out, but she had not expected such a luscious prize to arrive, wafting great gusts of delight.
"Celery!" said Thomas.
"What! Bloody celery!" said the sergeant, amused.
"Ah, but this is a new recipe I have recently concocted," said Thomas. He pointed down with pride at lumps of something floating in the stewish soup. "Do you remember those trout we caught a couple of weeks ago?"
"That right," said the sergeant, holding up his metal hand. "Hooked 'em, we did."
"And I smoked some. So here, my friend, we have an American chowder using American smoking--with fresh French ingredients. I'm especially proud of the toasted hazelnuts I've added."
With no more ado, Thomas ladled out the soup.
"Please, please, you go first," said the sergeant. "I'm not too sure about this one. Celery!"
"Celery root, actually," said Thomas.
With a bright silver spoon, Janice collected some of the meat and potato and boiled vegetable (celery root?) and blew on it. She put the spoon in her mouth.
"Oh, it's wonderful," she said. "Sergeant, it doesn't taste at all of celery."
"I believe the celery merely accentuates the rest," said Thomas.
The sergeant, still obviously dubious, lifted his spoon to his mouth. He blew, tasted, chewed. He nodded. "Right. That one's a keeper. Good job."
They ate. Thomas sat down and joined them. Soon the soup was gone as was her glass of wine. The sergeant poured her some more.
The soup was rich, creamy and buttery--with a smoky but light fish flavor. It got better with each bite. The wine got better. And when Thomas sat beside them, everything got better.
In fact, he wasn't just handsome, this Thomas, thought Janice. He was amazingly sexy. Now, dressed informally, she saw that a wealth of curly chest hair crept from his open shirt. He smelled of fresh sweat and his odor was of pure man. She couldn't help but just stare for a time at his ruddy complexioned, gorgeous face. But in truth, what with the wine, things were getting a little blurry.
Soup finished, more wine was poured. She did not object.
They seemed to be talking about the grounds, and how good the fishing and hunting was.
She wasn't saying much, nor did they seem to expect her too. "Just enjoy the meal, my dear," said the sergeant. "You look emac
iated. Put some meat on those pretty bones, eh?"
She just shrugged and drank.
When the soup was finished, the sergeant belched with approval.
"And now then," he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "Now, we will celebrate the great Napoleon Bonaparte--in a most unusual way. Is it ready, Thomas?"
"It is."
"I'll go get it, then, shall I."
"Certainly."
"You gab with Janice. I won't be long."
Thomas turned to Janice. "Well, good Janice," he said in English. "What part of the colonies are you from?"
She was surprised. "Well, as I've said, I'm from Martinique."
"Odd. You sound as though you could be from my very own Virginia."
"You mean," she said in English. "The way I speak French?"
"Yes, and now the way you speak English. Thomas said it with an odd look in those delicious blue eyes of his.
"I really don't know what you mean." She didn't. Virginia? She was from Kansas.
"This is really no time to talk of this," said Thomas. "Perhaps tomorrow or the next day? I am off duties usually about four, plenty of time for a walk by the river. I can show you where we caught the trout you ate. It's a very beautiful spot."
"Magnifique!" cried a hoarse voice from the kitchen.
"Yes, and we can speak English then, but perhaps it would be all for the best if we speak French," he said, returning to French. "Yes?"
"Yes. Yes, to it all, of course," she said, hoping her eyes were sparkling and that she looked her most fabulous and prettiest now that she was so well dressed and rested--and half in her cups. "It sounds charming."
"Good. I believe, then you will also be charmed with tonight's dinner."
Quickly, he stood and made the table ready with dishes and such, clearing away a space in the center.
"Here it comes!" said Sergeant Debussy. There was a clanking of dishes against metal as he came out, holding the handles of a large tray in his hand. "I suppose it would be nice to have servants out here, but all-in-all I think we make do!" he said, wobbling as he walked forward.
"Look here, sergeant," said Thomas. "As I have more or less been your manservant from time to time, let me help you.
"No, no. Good for me to make the presentation. Impress the lady, don't you know."
Finally, a few steps later, he was able to finally plop the tray in the center of the table.
The smell of the stuff hit her even before the sight registered.
She’d smelled it before--the onions and garlic and chicken--but now it hit her in a great gust of glory.
There, before her, golden brown, was a succulent feast and it smelled amazing.
"Voila!" said Sergeant Debussy. "Chicken ala Debussy. Fried potatoes and onion ala Thomas."
"Napoleon Bonaparte's favorite meal!" she cried with delight.
"Yes. Yes," said Debussy. "But with a few twists."
"We did hear of your... ah... interest... in Napoleon. So we thought we'd try it on you."
"We are going to make it for him on our next campaign," said Debussy. "The chicken is fire-roasted with a special garlic rub I concocted myself."
"And the potatoes are my own creation. With fresh dill--and small bits of smoked ham. Smoked like we smoke it back in Virginia," said Thomas proudly.
The chicken oozed juice as Thomas carved and served it. With a plop of steaming potatoes, he set the china dish in front of Janice.
She tasted the chicken. It was, in a word, heavenly. Chicken, she well knew was a different beast when fresh from a country farm, and this chicken seemed to have been a particularly happy and plump one. There was garlic, yes, and butter, yes... and something more. Nutmeg?
"Cognac," said Debussy when she asked. "Cognac. The alcohol dissolves the spices and give it a nice brown finish."
If anything the fried potatoes were better. They had a crisp golden fringe to them--and the dill and ham countered any harshness from the garlic and onions.
She found herself wolfing it down.
The cutlery flashed before her and they ate and talked.
"You know Napoleon then?" she asked.
"Well, as I said, not personally. But he is a friend to all soldiers."
"It is my wish to interest him in a continuing alliance with the United States," said Thomas. "However, he seems intent on other matters."
"Oh yes," said Janice, her voice a bit slurred with the wine. "The Louisiana Purchase!"
"Pardon?" said Thomas, mouth full and munching.
Oh dear! That was 1803. From all the signs, she was in 1799.
"You'd think he'd be interested in Louisiana," she said, not missing a beat. "And maybe purchase more!"
"Napoleon! He does not purchase. He takes and then we loot!" Debussy barked a laugh.
The meal was so delicious and Janice was so smashed with the wine, that things got confused.
One moment she was accepting another glass of wine, brought in by Sergeant Debussy especially, the next she was saying goodbye to an empty plate with the promise of a final surprise.
"Dessert?" she said.
"Yes. Dessert. A sweet. Call it what you like," said Thomas. "But I think you'll have a very special name when you see it."
"What is it, sergeant? You can tell me!" she said.
"Oh, I shouldn’t. Actually, Thomas prepared it especially for you, Janice."
"He did!"
"Yes. He's been quite taken with you. From the moment he saw you, I could tell. He is a handsome brute, isn't he?"
"And he is not married?"
The sergeant shrugged. "He is married to the French military. What do I know? He may have a wife here or there."
"And girlfriends?"
"Who knows? Perhaps, my dear, he has another one. Oh, oh... No... Your heart... " He was clearly drunk as well, this ugly, crooked sergeant. "Your heart is taken by Napoleon Bonaparte. Or should I say... General Murat?"
She took a big gulp of wine.
"I love all French men!"
"Oh. That is nice to hear, darling," said Debussy. "Ah, here it comes."
"Here you are, Janice," said Thomas, carrying in something on a large plate. "Just for you."
He set it down before her and she thought it must be her birthday.
A huge chocolate cake.
"A choc--" she said.
For some reason, the rest wouldn't come out right away. It seemed stuck in her throat.
"... ca... cay... Cake."
The world swirled with every bit of the swirl the top of the cake had.
And the next thing she knew, her face fell into the cake.
And the darkness tasted like chocolate.
CHAPTER FIVE
"Yum," said Janice.
The world was a chocolate world. And she herself was made of chocolate.
And someone was licking, nibbling, biting that thick rich chocolate.
"Oh. Oh yes," she said.
Things whirled and swirled, though far from in focus. She did smell chocolate, rich chocolate. Creamy chocolate. Was she drowning in chocolate?
She took a thick and urgent breath. Felt air in her lungs. No, she wasn't drowning! She was breathing and breathing well. She realized the chocolate was soaked with wine. And she realized, then, that she was standing up.
Janice opened her eyes.
She felt something licking at her side. The lick traveled up to the side of her left breast. And then it traveled all the way up to her nipple. And the nipple of her left breast was covered with brown—-brown... chocolate.
"So... good," said a voice. A voice she recognized. “So nice.”
The tongue that licked up her breast was strong and sure. It felt insistent and needy and though she was more than happy to have it there, she nonetheless was a bit taken aback by her situation.
She could not move.
Tied up again?
That was the thought that came to her. She felt a bit frightened at first by the thought. But then she looked down
and noticed, as some of the vapors in her head cleared, those distinctive curls.
It was Thomas!
It was Thomas who was licking her breast! Yes, those curls were unmistakable. And that voice! An American accent.
She'd been fantasizing about this during dinner, looking at him.
Was it real?
Thomas seemed to think so. Finished licking her breast, he nibbled down a chockatey stomach.
There, at her naval, he looked up.
She saw his eyes smile.
"Ah good. You are awake. Do you like your dessert?" he said.
"What are you doing?"
"Is it not plain? I am making love to you."
She was standing up, it would seem. No perhaps lying back just a little. She was on some sort of board that supported her. Her arms were wide and spread-eagled, clasped by chains affixed to a wall. And her legs were spread apart, chained in the same manner.
She heard the drip of water and smelled the dank of ancient straw. There was a moist chill in the air. On one side of the room they were in was a sconce and from this sconce fluttered a flame.
"What is this? Some kind of dungeon?"
"If you care to call it that. Debussy and I like to call it our play room," said the handsome man. He was stripped to the waist, His torso was the personification of perfection and sweat gleamed on it in the torchlight.
"Well, let me out of here. We can play. Why not?"
She found the words rushed out of her mouth somehow. She was frightened, and they poured forth.
"Perhaps, perhaps," said Thomas. "But allow me some amusement first."
"I am not sure I am--"
"It would be quite easy to arrange some sort of gag, if that would assist you in ceasing your gab," said Thomas. "Now attend."
The nibbles started again, and became more like bites. He paused just below her belly button, grabbed up a bit of skin between his teeth and then bore down on it.
It hurt.
It just hurt.
"I'm not sure--"
"A gag, Janice?"
These small bites continued all they way down to her labia, and here, amidst the bushy surroundings, he bore down again, his broad and well-muscled back agleam.
The French Affair Boxed Set Page 10
