Hot Winds From Bombay

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  Jefferd’s Tavern was only a brisk walk away from the Whiddington house. Zack welcomed the cold bite of the air and the silent solitude of midnight. He needed to clear his head and his senses. He needed to think. What the devil had he gotten himself into?

  “Never let a sailor loose ashore,” he muttered to himself. “He’s only safe with the sky overhead and the sea beneath his feet. Chee-rist, but I’m in the soup!”

  He trudged on, thinking of Persia—how sweet and willing and innocent her kisses were. But that was not to say they weren’t tempting. And it could get mighty dangerous for a man when he felt as tempted as Zack did at the moment. Maybe Jehu was right. Maybe a man needed to stay ashore with one woman all the time. At least then, when you itched you could scratch! And Zachariah was itching right now as he had never itched before.

  He wondered what tomorrow would bring. It was bound to be interesting with both sisters there.

  That Europa was something. Even as he’d been hauling her out of the icy water—both of them freezing half to death—he’d felt her turn her body in his arms so that her breasts snuggled right up to his chest, begging to be fondled. But damn, his hands had been too numb with the cold to feel a thing. Still, he’d hardly needed the fire in the Whiddington parlor to warm him up! Her kiss might have been brief, but it promised a world of passion. He’d met her kind before—”Venus flowers,” he called them. They’d attract a man with their sweetness, only to devour him when he got too close. Yes, he had Miss Europa pegged all right. Still, there wasn’t a man alive who could resist such a woman’s sensuous invitation.

  But Persia, now there was another matter. The girl—woman, he corrected in his mind, for she was all of that—the woman had no guile about her. She was honest and open with her feelings, almost too open. Jesus, hadn’t her mother taught her anything about men? Didn’t she know from observing Europa that a woman was supposed to cozy up to a fellow, keep him dangling, play the game by the rules? He’d never met a woman who just came right out with it: “I love you, Zack!” No pretty this and that… no stalling, no teasing, no flattering, no flaunting. Just the words, plain and simple and honest and terrifying!

  Christ, it was enough to scare a man out of his wits!

  He shook his head and jammed his hands farther down into his pockets. No, sir, he’d never met one like her!

  Suddenly, he came to a skidding stop on the icy street, a memory bright in his thoughts. He had met another, yes indeed. Mahianna. Except that her coloring was different and she wore more clothes, Persia could be his native lover all over again.

  He groaned aloud at the thought. How the hell was he supposed to act toward her now? A man couldn’t compare a bare-breasted native woman to a proper New England maiden and come up with anything but trouble. Maybe his best bet was just not to show up at the Whiddington house for dinner. He’d clear out first thing tomorrow… take the cars down to Boston and never look back.

  He hurried on toward the tavern, feeling the cold gnawing at his bones. Yes, that was his best bet—stay clear altogether!

  The hot, smoky atmosphere of Jefferd’s taproom engulfed him as soon as he opened the door of the tavern. The essence of the place, thick with malt and body sweat, made him feel at home. The subject of women and how to handle them might be beyond his grasp, but he understood his own kind. There was something so right and comfortable about men gathering in a hospitable tavern to bend elbows together, swap brags, and tell lies.

  “Hallo there, Hazzard!” hailed a familiar voice from across the layers of blue smoke hanging in the air. “Hey, barkeep, a mug for the hero of the hour.”

  “Sorrentino, is that you, man?” Hazzard called back, knowing full well it was indeed his shipmate.

  “Sí, as big as life and twice as ugly.” The swarthy, wine vat-chested Italian, who had signed on in Naples, clamped a bear-paw hand on Zack’s shoulder and made an expansive gesture toward the other men at the bar with his free arm. “You see, I told you he was my amicol Would a Napolitano lie?”

  “I thought you were off to Boston with the others.”

  “I decided to stay and see what this skating on ice was like. Mama mía!” Enrico Sorrentino rubbed his backside and grimaced. “I am more sore than when my bella Angelina kicked me out of the house! That ice, she is hard!”

  All the men at the bar laughed at the little Italian’s mournful tale.

  “But you, amico, you fly like a ship under full sail over the ice. I never saw nothing like it. And when you dived in to save the beautiful signorina… ah-h-h!” He turned a knowing conspirator’s smile on Zack. “It is love at first sight, no?”

  Zack threw back his head and laughed. “Always the romantic, aren’t you, Enrico?”

  The man shrugged and grinned. “It is my blood. But who wouldn’t fall in love with such a dark-haired beauty? Ah, she reminds me of my own dear Angelina. The sweetest woman God ever created.”

  “I thought you said she kicked you out.”

  Sí, sí! But I deserved it. She caught me with her delicious cousin Luisa. I was stupido! A man may need more than one woman, but he does not take his wife’s cousin to his own bed, if he is wise. I should have found some other woman and set her up in a little place on the far side of Vesuvio. That would have been the smart thing.” He grinned, shrugged, and turned his hands palms up. “But it was a sultry August afternoon, the kind when a man sweats and pants for love. My wife was visiting her mama, and Luisa was tending our bambino. She was so lovely, so…” Unable to think of the word in English, Enrico made open-handed gestures before his chest, indicating the fullness of Luisa’s breasts. “So available!”

  “And you got caught.”

  “Sí” the Italian said miserably.

  “Ah, my friend, you should never tamper with two women in the same family at the same time.” Zack’s words stopped abruptly when he realized he might be warning himself as well as Enrico.

  A glint kindled in the Italian’s obsidian eyes. “Was the beautiful one with hair like fire not the sister of the one in the water, my friend?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Oh, ho-ho!” A thick finger wagged under Zack’s nose. “Heed your own words of wisdom, Zack boy. And listen, too, to one who knows: Choose one of the two, or you will end up with neither.”

  “What does that little Eye-talian know?” broke in a bearded logger, well in his cups, who was farther down the bar. Abe Cushing was his name. “A big strapping fellow like you could handle half a dozen women at once if he set his damn mind to it! What say you, mates?”

  The others all voiced their agreement.

  “See, I told you,” Abe said. “Give him a bottle on me. We got plans to lay, friend.”

  “Do not listen to him, Zack. He is drunk. Would your old friend Enrico tell you other than the truth? If you value your life, you will pick one or the other. But two sisters? Mama mia, is big trouble!”

  Zack, of course, agreed with his shipmate. But with each free drink, his self-esteem grew. In little over an hour, Zachariah Hazzard was larger than life and every woman’s dream. Why couldn’t he have both the pure and innocent Persia and her provocative sister Europa? They were so different. They would make his life wonderful. When he wanted reality and love, he would choose Persia. When the need of fantasy and raw lust fired him, he would seek out Europa.

  As the alcohol bubbled through his blood to his brain, he began to visualize himself as a sultan, calling one woman or another from his harem at his whim. He saw himself stretched out naked on scarlet satin cushions with Europa, wearing only a transparent mauve drape, purring in his arms. Persia stood by, her own slim, delectable form visible through the folds of her thin gown, waving a peacock feather fan to cool the lovers, begging intermittently to be allowed to join in the pleasuring of the master.

  “In a minute, Persia. I’ll take you next,” he mumbled.

  Someone was shaking him. “Zack, amicol Snap out of it! You’re raving like a craz
y man. Two women… bah! Better one good one for the rest of your life. Here, drink this.”

  Enrico held a scalding mug of coffee to Zack’s lips. It burned like hell going down, but it chased away the craziness in his head.

  “You’re right, my friend,” Hazzard agreed. “One woman… only one.”

  “But which one?” demanded Abe, the bearded drunk. “And could you even get one of the Whiddington sisters, if you wanted to? My money says that the old captain would have that trained savage of his, Fletcher by name, skin the hide off you and shrink your head for his collection before he’d let you even call on one of his beauties, much less marry either of them.”

  “That just shows what you know, mate!” Zack fired back at his tormentor. “It so happens I’m invited to call tomorrow… for dinner.”

  The others in the bar exchanged looks, low whistles, and lewd comments.

  “That don’t mean a thing,” Abe said. “You’re talking one call. I’m talking forever after!”

  “I could marry either one I wanted to.”

  Abe slammed a leather pouch down on the bar. “Then put your money where your mouth is, Zachariah Hazzard!”

  Zack reached down for his own purse, which contained every cent of his wages for the past four years at sea. Enrico caught his hand. “Zack, no! Don’t be crazy!”

  “Leave me be, Sorrentino,” he growled. “By damn, I’ll match his bet, and I’ll win it all!”

  He slapped the full pouch down on the bar.

  A hush fell over the barroom. Men whispered among themselves, but no one spoke aloud. Never had any of them seen so much wagered over such unusual stakes.

  “Which sister you planning to marry?” asked the grining logger.

  Zack rose grandly, if a bit unsteadily. “I’ll let you know when I decide.”

  Abe Cushing scooped up the two pouches and shoved them across the bar to the tavernkeeper. “You hold the bets. I’ll be back to collect within the week.”

  “Like hell you will!” Zack roared. The next instant, he sank to the floor.

  “Zack, amico, what have you done?”

  They were the last words he heard until he awoke the next morning, his head throbbing, the same words gnawing at his frazzled brain.

  Chapter Six

  As usual, the Whiddington family set out early to walk the short distance up Main Street to the white, steepled church. This ritual had been observed every Sunday of Persia’s life. While the laws forcing New Englanders to attend regular services had been abolished, it would have been frowned upon for any church member to forgo the opportunity to worship each and every Sunday.

  They always walked, whether the air was fine and mild or blustering with hurricane winds. Victoria, on her husband’s arm, led the way, with Europa and Persia following along behind, their faces hidden demurely by ruffled bonnets and their gloved hands folded at their waists. Nothing was really different on this November morning. The same friends greeted them. The same bells called the citizens of Quoddy Cove to worship from the same white steeple. The same tap-tap of her father’s scrimshandered, whale-ivory walking stick rapped out their progress along the way.

  But something seemed different this morning. Persia was different. She looked on the snowbound world with brighter eyes and a lighter heart than ever before. There seemed to be a new awareness about her. She could almost feel her body growing and changing from the flesh her soul had worn as a girl into the more shapely human garb of a woman. And so had her mind turned, too, from childish thoughts to mature needs and desires. Of course, her main desires centered around Zachariah Hazzard.

  It seemed to Persia that she was wedded to him already in spirit. Their parting kiss the night before and her admission that she loved him sealed the vows in her mind. Now her thoughts were focused on how she might accomplish a like oneness of the flesh.

  “Do hurry along, girls,” urged their mother. “I can’t abide the thought of heads turning as we enter church. After being the center of all attention last night, I want to be early this morning. We must be in our pew before everyone else is seated.”

  “Poor Mother,” Europa whispered. “Always so concerned about what other people will think and say.”

  “And you couldn’t care in the least, I suppose?” Persia asked.

  “Certainly not! I do as my conscience dictates. And from your performance last night, I’d say you do the same, sister dear.”

  “I certainly do not! I’d never do anything to upset Mother and Father, if I could help it. I owe them my respect. And so do you!”

  “But we don’t owe them our lives. Not if it means sacrificing our happiness to satisfy them. You’re so young and naive, Persia. But I suppose you’ll grow up someday.”

  “I can’t imagine that they would ever want us to make such sacrifices for them.”

  Europa made no reply but cocked one sooty eyebrow at her younger sister, as if unwilling to explain further to such a dull child.

  Persia was still smarting under Europa’s taunts as they entered the church and moved down the aisle to their pew, second from the front.

  Although the hour was early, quite a few members of the congregation were seated already. Apparently, their mother was right. There were those anxious to ogle the Whiddington clan after last night’s activities at the pond. Among them was Miss Birdie Blackwell, dressed as always in vulture black, her beady eyes trained on them and her wrinkled neck craning to overhear any word they might say. Persia felt the woman’s eyes on the back of her head and turned slightly, catching her staring. When Persia smiled, Miss Blackwell, with an upward tilt of her sharp nose, quickly looked away.

  Undaunted by the old gossip’s curiosity, Persia settled herself into her usual prayerful position. The Reverend Osgood had often commented to Captain and Mrs. Whiddington on the piety of their younger daughter. “She’s as still as a nun in church, her eyes fixed on the cross, her hands folded in prayer. And she pays the closest attention to every word of my sermons. If only all young people were so meek and attentive. She must be a blessing to you.”

  Persia felt guilty whenever her parents mentioned the minister’s remarks about her. She never admitted to anyone that she grasped very little of what the good reverend said as he droned on and on every Sunday. Her attention instead was focused on the beautifully crafted pulpit, fashioned by ships’ joiners. She loved the romantic story behind its creation. The remarkable pulpit was made of one huge mahogany log that had been found floating in the Gulf of Mexico by down-east seamen. Since the log was too enormous to be hauled aboard their ship, the men had tied it securely and towed it all the way back to Maine. She loved sitting in church and staring at the pulpit, all the while making up tales about pirates and handsome sea captains and faraway lands. She often dreamed of the stories the rich red-brown wood might tell, if only…

  Suddenly, Reverend Osgood’s voice boomed out over his congregation, jolting Persia in her seat.

  “Let us pray,” commanded the white-bearded cleric.

  Persia bowed her head and closed her eyes. But she heard not a word of the prayer, nor did any visions of heaven enlighten her soul. With her eyes tightly shut, she watched great ships sail through her mind. And on the deck of every one stood Zack Hazzard, his chest bare, his beard and hair rampant in the wind, a smile on his face… and smoldering desire in his brown eyes only for her.

  Zack sat on the side of his bed, his aching head clutched in his hands. Each peal of the distant church bell resounded painfully, as if the clapper were inside his brain.

  “Oh, God,” he groaned, but he wasn’t praying. Or perhaps he was… for death to free him from the pain. Suddenly, he remembered the events of the night before and evoked the name of his Maker louder still. “Oh, God!”

  He seemed to remember making love to two women… he remembered a barroom celebration… an outrageous wager. He moaned. Maybe it was all a dream, an hallucination drunk from a mug in the tavern.


  Rising with some difficulty, he stumbled about the room. He dumped his sea bag, digging with trembling fingers through shirts, trousers, and linen, searching for his money pouch.

  “Not there,” he muttered.

  He kicked aside the strewn clothes and searched the room—pulling out empty drawers, slamming the closet door, searching under the mattress—frantic now. All his wages from four long years at sea, every cent he had in the world. Surely he hadn’t…

  “But I must have,” he said at last, sinking back down to the bed.

  He had let a stranger con him into an impossible wager. Now he must convince one of the Whiddington sisters to marry him or lose the fortune he had worked so hard to earn.

  “Enrico, my friend, why didn’t you stop me?” he moaned. Then he remembered that his shipmate had tried. But grog was a formidable opponent against reason.

  Suddenly, he brightened. The tavern owner was holding his money. Surely the man would understand that what Zack had committed himself to last night while in the clutches of demon rum was only the purest form of insanity in the bright light of a Sunday morning. No one could hold him to it. He would simply go downstairs and reason with the man, explaining that all bets were off and he would like his purse returned.

  Zack started down the stairs at a dash, but vertigo and a throbbing pain in the back of his head soon slowed his tread. There was no need to kill himself. His pouch would still be there when he reached the taproom. He felt a wave of relief when he spied the familiar face of the barkeep, polishing the empty bar.

  “Morning, Mr. Hazzard,” the man said with a smile.

  But Zack was in no mood for pleasantries. “You have my money?” he asked of the round-faced, balding man he remembered only slightly from the previous evening.