by Jane Feather
Chapter 18
Meg stood in the stern of the Rosa listening to Cosimo haggle with a burly fisherman from the little town of Cadillac that clung to the banks of the river. They were negotiating a price for Rosa and Meg felt rather sad at the thought of leaving the little craft. In the last two days she’d grown accustomed to the gentle motion, the soft sounds of the river, even to sleeping in the narrow bunk.
Cosimo had risked an extra day on the river, reckoning that he would get a better price for his boat in Cadillac, which, although small, was slightly larger than the villages they passed. He also reckoned that he would be able to buy better horses in the town than in the countryside.
At last the two men spat in their hands and shook in the age-old gesture of a bargain completed, and Cosimo came over to Meg. “Well, that’s done,” he said. “For better or worse. There’s a small hostelry in town, not overly salubrious but it’ll do for tonight while I make arrangements for tomorrow. A cart is coming to collect the trunk.”
Meg nodded. “I shall miss Rosa.”
He looked at her closely, wondering if her subdued manner was caused only by the prospect of leaving the water. She had not as yet recovered her usual exuberant self after the encounter with the barge outside Bordeaux, and he’d not pressed her, partly, he was forced to admit, because he didn’t want to risk another rejection. He told himself that she was coming to grips with the more dangerous realities of this journey and she was best left to do that in her own fashion.
“Well,” he said cheerfully, “you won’t miss our makeshift meals, and I can guarantee a good dinner this evening. The accommodations at the Cheval Blanc may be a little basic, but it keeps a good kitchen.”
Meg responded with a smile that was slowly becoming less effortful. She had told herself she simply had to adjust her romanticism to reality, not something she would ordinarily find in the least difficult to do. In fact, she would have claimed to have very little romantic sensibility, but she’d certainly let some idealistic version of a passionate adventure rule her head up until the other night. Cosimo was not to blame for her own addle-pated sentimentality and she would manage to shake herself out of it.
“So, we ride from now on?” she said, forcing a note of interest into her voice.
“To start with,” he said.
“But what of the trunk?”
“We’ll dispense with the trunk, and package its contents into saddlebags. Once we’re well clear of this area, then you’ll adopt your petticoats again, and some of the time you can travel by carriage.”
At that Meg shook her head vigorously. “I cannot abide carriages,” she declared. “They make me sick.”
He pulled an earlobe. “That’s awkward. I don’t think you’ll be able to ride all day every day. Are you sure about the carriage? You didn’t get seasick.”
“I’m quite sure,” she said grimly. “I’ve never been able to stand more than an hour at a time in a carriage without vomiting.”
“Well, we’ll have to see,” he said. He had the urge to hold her, to kiss the little worry lines away from her forehead, but here on an open deck, tied up to the quayside of a bustling little town, was no place for physical demonstrations between a pair of sailors.
“What are you grinning about?” Meg demanded, seeing the wicked gleam in his eye, the curve of his mouth.
He told her and was rewarded with a peal of laughter that warmed his heart. “That’s better,” he said, then ventured, “Why so glum just recently?”
She shrugged. “I was unnerved, I suppose.”
“And now?” His eyes narrowed, his gaze intent on her face.
Meg made up her mind. Moping was a pointless activity. What was past was past. It was time to look forward again, otherwise she was wasting her time completely. “I seem to be getting my nerve back,” she responded.
“Perhaps I was expecting you to run before you can walk,” he said thoughtfully. “But you think so quickly in a crisis that I tend to forget you’re inexperienced at this game.”
Meg felt an unexpected rush of pleasure at the compliment. She had noticed on board the Mary Rose that the privateer was sparing with compliments to his crew, just as he was with criticisms. His standards were high and it didn’t occur to him that a member of his crew would fail to meet them or even exceed them. And as far as she herself was concerned, any appreciative comments had thus far been confined to the delights of her body and the pleasures of lovemaking.
“Well, thank you, kind sir,” she said with a mock bow.
He touched the cleft in her chin in a brief caress and then was all business again. “I want you to go to the inn and stay there while I clear the boat and arrange for horses. Now that we’ve drawn attention to ourselves, the less visible you are here, the better.”
Meg offered no objection, although when they arrived at the inn she did wrinkle her nose at the grimy bedchamber and the flea-ridden mattress. “Is there nowhere else in this town?” she murmured when the landlord had left them.
“I’m afraid not. I did ask around when I came in earlier. But it’s just for tonight. We’ll be out of here at dawn.”
“What the fleas have left of us,” she retorted, poking at the straw mattress with a disdainful finger. “Is there any spare canvas on the boat? If it’s thick enough, they might not bite through it.”
“I’ll bring what there is,” he promised. “Now stay here and keep out of sight. I’ll be back within the hour.” He saw objection in her eyes, her mouth opening to voice it, and quickly took her by the shoulders, pulling her hard against him. He kissed her, intending it to be a light but firm farewell, except that things changed. He felt her come alive beneath his mouth, her body suddenly taut against him. It was the first time in two days that she had responded to him in this way. He ran his hands down her back, then held her waist as he raised his head for a minute and looked deep into her eyes, reading the swift upsurge of passion dancing across the green surface.
“How agile are you feeling?” he murmured, his hands moving to the fastening of her britches, then pushing them roughly off her hips.
“I’m not going near the bed,” she answered obliquely but in a fervent whisper as she kicked her feet free of sandals and then britches. She tugged his shirt out of his britches, pushing her hands up beneath it, her nails scribbling over his back.
“Wait . . . wait . . . love,” he muttered against her mouth, shrugging out of the shirt, still holding her at the waist. He stepped backwards, drawing her with him, and threw his shirt on the low rough stone of the windowsill.
“Ah, ingenious,” Meg said, her eyes widening with mingled amusement and excitement. She jumped as he lifted her so that she was sitting on the stone sill, her bare skin protected by his shirt. “Are we going to provide a spectacle for anyone below?” she asked. “Should we pass the hat afterwards?”
“Our only audience is a couple of cows,” he said, glancing over her shoulder into the field below. “Now be quiet. Didn’t anyone ever explain to you the detumescent effect of misplaced levity at certain moments?”
“I’m not aware of any such effect,” she said, sliding her flat palm down his belly before deftly unfastening his britches. She enclosed in her palm the very clear evidence in support of her claim, then leaned forward and nibbled his bottom lip, reaching behind to push her free hand down inside his opened britches to the cleft between his buttocks.
Cosimo drew a swift breath and pushed his own hands beneath her bottom, lifting her on the shelf of his palms. She reached her arms around his neck and curled her legs around his hips, fitting herself against him, belly to belly. He was inside her in one smooth thrust and held her as he moved. She clung to his neck, his hands, warm and strong against her bottom, holding her in a precarious position that allowed her no initiative. She could only receive. The dismay and the uncertainty of the last couple of days disintegrated as the pleasure filled her. How could she be afraid of a man who could bring her such delight? Only someone she truste
d with her soul, someone to whom she could give herself without restraint, could bring her such joy.
Her heels pressed into his buttocks as the sensation rocked her. She buried her mouth in his shoulder, her arms locking around his neck, helpless to slow the tidal wave, and she felt him shudder against her, pulsing deep within her, his seed flooding her. And when it was over he held her gently as her locked thighs relaxed and she slid down his body until her feet touched the floor.
“Sweet Jesus,” he murmured, pushing a hand through her tangled curls. “Maybe there’s something to be said for a short abstinence once in a while.”
Meg smiled weakly. “Except that we forgot to be careful this time.”
He had forgotten. In that wild, spontaneous moment of ecstasy, he had forgotten his usual precaution. Never before had he spilled his seed inside her.
“I should bleed in two days,” she said, seeing his expression.
Cosimo nodded. There was little point worrying about something until there was something to worry about. “I have to go back to the Rosa, love. And then to the livery stables, and—”
“And I’m not staying in this cesspit twiddling my thumbs for the rest of the afternoon,” Meg interrupted him as she shook out her britches. The physical intensity of those few moments had energized her, restored her initiative, and she had no intention of meekly staying hidden in this filthy chamber.
“I have a good eye for horseflesh—my father breeds hunters—and I will find us what we need. You’ll need to give me the funds, though.”
Cosimo hesitated for barely an instant. The more involved Meg became in the details of this mission, the easier it would be in the end. “As you wish,” he said, tucking his shirt back into his britches and refastening them. “But I think we need to make a few minor adjustments to your appearance in that case.”
“Oh?” Intrigued, Meg scrambled back into her clothes, watching as he rummaged through a small valise that he had brought with them.
“Ah, my little box of tricks,” he said, taking out a metal tin. “Come here, Ganymede.” He opened the tin.
Meg approached somewhat cautiously. He held a thin pencil and a round pot in the palm of his hand. “What’s that?”
“A pencil and charcoal,” he answered. “I want to enhance your eyebrows a little, and just give the hint of hair on the upper lip. Your figure is convincing, my dear, but your face is all too pure to pass more than a careless glance.”
Meg stood very still, controlling her impatience to see the result, as Cosimo deftly touched the pencil to her eyebrows, then to her upper lip. “Are you sure this isn’t going to look ridiculous?”
“Be quiet!” he ordered. “How can I do this if you keep moving your mouth?”
“Sorry,” she murmured, attempting the utter immobility of a mime, despite the slight tickle that made her want to sneeze.
Cosimo stood back and examined his handiwork critically. “That’ll pass, I believe. But a little shadow here, just along the jawline . . . Yes, that’s perfect. Had you thought about your less-than-authentic accent? I don’t want to start using the cover story until we’re well away from the river. It’s not convincing for a man and a youth on a sailboat.” He waited with interest to see whether she had thought through this small impediment.
“Some of the accents around here are so incomprehensible that I don’t think my own will be that noticeable,” Meg said. “But I’ll disguise any English twang with mumbles and monosyllables. It’s not that difficult to pick out a couple of horses with staying power, pay for them, and arrange to pick them up at first light without entering into a long conversation.”
“Keep the cap low over your eyes, use a lot of gestures, and we’ll need a packhorse as well as the riding horses,” Cosimo instructed briskly, counting the points on his fingers. “Don’t pay more than twenty livres per riding horse, and no more than ten for the packhorse.” He counted out coins into her palm. “Be back here in two hours at the latest, Meg. When you leave the inn, turn to your right and you’ll find the livery stables in a side alley about a quarter of a mile away.”
“That sounds simple enough,” she said with a confidence she wasn’t sure she felt. She tossed the coins in the palm of her hand. “Until later then.” She raised her face for a kiss.
“Until later.” Cosimo kissed her, lingered for a second on the sweetness of her lips, then turned and left her, saying over his shoulder, “Two hours, Meg. Not a second longer.”
She stood for a minute looking at the door he’d left ajar. She had no mirror to familiarize herself with her adjusted appearance. It was more than a little strange to go out on the street, negotiate for horses, without having a real sense of what she looked like.
But it was all part of the adventure. Meg thrust the coins into the pocket of her britches and ventured forth onto the lanes of Cadillac. She found the livery stable without difficulty and was greeted not by the man she’d expected but by a smiling, apple-cheeked woman who very quickly made it clear that she knew as much about horseflesh and doing business as any man around.
Meg warmed to her even as she realized that her disguise was harder to maintain for a woman’s eye. She followed Cosimo’s advice and kept the cap low, spoke in barely a mutter, but let her eyes and hands do the work. There was a deep-chested gelding that would do for Cosimo. She ran a knowledgeable hand down his hocks, feeling for warmth or tenderness, stroked his withers, pushed back his lips. His teeth seemed sound and his mouth had no sores from an ill-used curb.
She nodded an affirmative to the woman and moved down the line of horses. She knew exactly what would suit her. A gelding or a mare of medium height with a smooth mouth and good back. A bright-eyed piebald mare was in the last stall, shifting restlessly on her straw. She was a beauty and Meg’s eyes sparked with the excitement of the shopper who has found the perfect purchase.
“Celle-ci,” she said firmly.
The woman named a price. Thirty livres. Meg didn’t hesitate. The mare was worth every penny. They would have to forgo the packhorse and travel light. She counted out the money, arranged in the same monosyllabic mumble to collect the animals before dawn in the morning, and returned to the inn, delighted with the success of her errand.
Cosimo was rather less delighted. “You paid thirty livres for a mare?”
“Cosimo, she’s worth twice that. She’s beautiful.”
His lip curled a little. “What has beauty to do with stamina?”
“Everything,” Meg stated. “It has little to do with looks, but everything to do with health, and muscle, and temperament.”
Now there Cosimo could not disagree. “I’m going to look at her,” he said, and left.
Meg paced the small, unpleasant chamber, aware of both hunger and the most appetizing smells coming from below. After a while she addressed herself to the trunk that Cosimo had brought back with him on a cart. There was a sheet of heavy canvas that had been dipped in tar. In ordinary circumstances it would make the most abominable sheet, but she was by now used to the smell, in fact she liked its association with salt and sun, and no fleas would penetrate such a barrier. She occupied her time throwing the canvas over the crackling straw mattress and searching through the trunk for something that would serve as a makeshift cover.
“I can’t argue with your judgment on horseflesh,” Cosimo announced from the doorway, surprising her as her head was buried in the trunk. “She is indeed beautiful, and the gelding will serve well. I bought a packhorse and they’ll all be delivered here at four o’clock tomorrow morning. What are you looking for?”
“Something to cover this canvas. It’s so stiff to sleep on. Although I’d sleep on concrete if it would keep the fleas at bay.” She sat back on her heels, flushed from her exertions.
“Use my boat cloak.” He stood over her with an appraising eye. “My handiwork is smudged. If we’re going to eat supper below, then we need to repair the damage.”
“I’m famished, and whatever it is it smells amazing,�
� Meg declared, letting him pull her to her feet. “I wish I could see what your artistic efforts are producing.”
Cosimo reapplied pencil and charcoal. “I do assure you, it will pass muster,” he stated, adding, “in a dim light.”
“I’m so hungry I’m not sure I really care.” She went ahead of him to the stairs, inhaling the rich fragrant smells from below. “What do they cook here?”
“Fish aplenty, but also duck, goose liver is a specialty, sausage, lentils . . .”
“Enough,” Meg said, her saliva running.
They ate at the common board and Meg was relieved to find that the food and wine were the most important elements of the evening. None of their table companions seemed particularly interested in conversation. Bread was passed with flagons of good Bordeaux, and spoons plunged into the communal dishes of a fish stew and a cauldron of potatoes, onions, and bacon. Knives sliced into garlicky sausage and slabs of cheese, and voices rose as the wine flowed. She passed unnoticed, slumping down on the bench, taking care of her appetite, but listening all the time, trying to absorb the accent, identify the vocabulary. She had been taught French by a Parisienne who spoke with a perfect diction that had no affinity with the rough vowels of provincial France. But the more she listened, the more she understood. Whether she could imitate it was another matter.
The conversation grew louder as cognac began to circulate, and Meg thought she could safely slip away unnoticed. She slid off the long bench and beat a retreat to the room upstairs. She found a tallow candle on the windowsill and lit it. The smell of tallow was unpleasant but the light at least softened the contours of the uninviting space. The bed should be safe enough, though. Fleas would have a hard time biting their way through tar-soaked canvas.
