Hot Winds From Bombay

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  “Yessiree! Safe and sound. Locked away for the time being. And in a lot better shape than you this morning, I’d say. Ayah!”

  “Give it to me, please.”

  The man’s grin was literally blinding. The morning sun came through the window and shot off a gold front tooth directly into Zack’s aching eyes.

  “Sorry, sir. But a bet’s a bet. I’ll have both pouches, ready for the proper disbursement, here in the taproom next Saturday night. I believe that’s the time and place you and Abe Cushing agreed upon.” He flashed his eye-shattering grin once more. “Ayah! Be expectin’ a big turnout come Saturday. Whole town’s going to want to know the outcome.”

  “But I didn’t know what I was doing last night.”

  The barkeep shrugged apologetically. “I doubt old Abe did, either. But we got at least two sober witnesses, one of ’em being your little Eye-talian shipmate, the other being me. Makes it a honest bet. Ayah. Good as gold and bindin’ as roughage!”

  Zack turned away. He felt sick. It was obvious that he would get nowhere with this man. He was probably in on the con and would receive a cut of Zack’s purse when the time came and no bride was presented.

  Cursing himself for a damn fool, Zack turned and climbed the stairs slowly. Where could he go? What could he do? He didn’t even have the money to pay for his room. Enrico? No! It would be too degrading to go to him begging for a loan after last night. Maybe he could pick up a few odd jobs around town to see him through until he could sign on with a new ship. But that would only solve his immediate need for money. He had wagered almost four years of his life. He couldn’t allow himself to throw all that away.

  Damn! He had no choice. He would have to convince Miss Whiddington to marry him. But which Miss Whiddington?

  Even the beautifully crafted pulpit failed to hold Persia’s attention on this particular Sunday morning. As Reverend Osgood stretched his sermon beyond its usual limits, she found herself fidgeting in her seat. Her hands worried one another in her lap, twisting her linen handkerchief until it was little better than a limp rag. All she could think about was getting out and dashing home to wait for Zack.

  She had scanned the congregation upon arrival, hoping to see him in church. But, of course, most sailors attended only the obligatory services on the Sunday before setting out to sea. They were not known as a group for their piety. Apparently, the man she loved was no different from the rest. Still, in a way she was relieved that he wasn’t in church. How much more difficult it would have been to sit still and make even a pretense of paying attention to the sermon if Zack had been there, staring at the back of her head and sending shivers through her simply by being under the same roof.

  Careful to hold a properly devout expression on her face, Persia whiled away the time by planning what she would wear to dinner. She had several new dresses, recently arrived from her mother’s dressmaker in Boston. There was a dove-gray flannelette trimmed in cotton lace, a blush-pink taffeta, and a new highland plaid from Scotland. But none seemed quite right for the occasion.

  “And the meek shall inherit the earth!” boomed Reverend Osgood, noting with satisfaction that even as he pronounced the words, Miss Persia Whiddington colored demurely and cast her gaze down before him. Ah, she was a pious girl!

  But piety had nothing whatsoever to do with the high color in Persia’s cheeks or the downward cast of her eyes. That both had come at that precise point in the sermon was purest coincidence.

  Persia blushed at her own private thoughts. She had decided what she would wear… if she dared.

  She remembered well the day that Europa had cast the gown from her closet, saying, “Here, Persia, take this old thing. You can use it to play dress-up. The colors have never been right for me. Yellow turns me sallow. And that particular shade of blue clashes with my eyes.”

  Persia had murmured her thanks, being careful not to give away the joy she felt at the acquisition of this cast-off for fear her sister would reconsider and take it back. For some time, Europa had been allowed to wear the latest fashions with their high waists, low bodices, and long, narrow skirts. Although Persia’s wardrobe was filled with gowns of the richest fabrics from Europe and the Orient, they all appeared to be cut for a child. Never was she permitted to display a hint of bosom or a length of shapely arm. But now, at sixteen, she was old enough, she decided.

  Secretly, she had altered Europa’s gown to a perfect fit. She had been saving it to surprise everyone on some special occasion. What better time than this to spring her surprise?

  “Persia, for heaven’s sake, are you asleep?” Europa was poking at her. Reverend Osgood had finally run out of pious platitudes, and everyone else had risen to leave the church.

  She flashed her older sister a wide, confident smile. “No, Europa. Not sleeping, just dreaming.”

  Resigned to his fate, Zack spent the rest of his morning nursing his hangover. While doing that, he bathed as best he could in the small metal hat tub the innkeeper provided. He glanced in the mirror and was suddenly struck by how sensible it was for human beings to do this sort of thing in absolute private. What would a bride do—Persia or Europa Whiddington, for instance—if she came upon her naked husband jammed in the tub as he was at this minute with his long legs folded up practically to his chin and all his maleness lying there shrunken and far from inviting in the cold light of day?

  “Probably take me for a great hairy spider, scream, and run for her life,” he observed wryly.

  No, he was not a pretty sight this way. But what man was? He could only hope that the proper clothes would successfully hide the naked animal and help lure his ladylove into believing him handsome and of the proper material for a husband.

  “Persia or Europa? Europa or Persia?” he mused aloud while washing a foot.

  Although this was not an easy situation, it would be so much simpler if there were only one woman to consider. And with seven short days to pay his court and win himself a wife, there was precious little time to be spent pondering the matter. He must move right in and ply his strategy from the moment he arrived at the Whiddington house.

  Suddenly he brightened. Maybe he didn’t have to choose one or the other right now. He could pay equal attention to both sisters, bide his time, and see which one seemed the more likely to accept his proposal. Yes, that would not only be the smart thing to do, but it would be a damn interesting experience! He’d sensed the competition between the pair. If neither of them knew which one he was courting, they would both be more aggressive, making his task much easier.

  His decision made not to make one at this time, he set about bathing in earnest. The scalding water turned his salt-cured skin red bronze. He scrubbed himself hard, feeling as if he were scraping away four years’ accumulation of the grime of the whole world. For longer than he cared to remember, his bathtub had been the briny ocean. Soap, even the caustic cake provided by the tavernkeeper, was a luxury. He lathered, scrubbed, rinsed, then lathered again. And by the time he finished his bath, he felt half-alive again.

  For once in his life, he had not squandered his spending money on trinkets but had gone to a tailor in London a few months back for a proper suit of clothes—something he had never owned before. Now, carefully and with no small measure of delight, he folded back the layers of brown paper and tissue that had protected the fabric these past months. It was all there, and in the latest fashion. The tight fawn trousers were tapered the full length of his legs, with loops to fit snugly under the instep. The bottle-green coat was cut shorter and with a closer fit at the waist than the style of a few years ago. It sported tails. The burgundy brocade waistcoat was also cut low to show his beruffled shirt to its best advantage. And a crisp stock would grace his throat. Top that with the new gray beaver hat and a scarlet greatcoat with several capes to make his shoulders look even broader, and what woman could resist him?

  He smiled and ran a finger over the fine linen of the shirt. It would feel good against his skin.
Or against a woman’s soft cheek, he mused.

  Still naked, his sleek body glowing from his vigorous scrubbing, Zack strode to the shaving stand in the corner and took up his straight-edge razor. He held the instrument poised for several moments while he stared at the wild tangle of beard and hair in the oval mirror. It was impossible to tell where one left off and the other began. Perhaps he should shave it all away. But he’d worn the beard too long. His cheeks would be as tender and vulnerable as a baby’s bottom if exposed. He decided merely to tame the thatch.

  With careful strokes, he brought forth more face than he had seen in many months, leaving a mustache and full side whiskers for protection against the snow glare and winter wind. After more than an hour spent at the task, he nodded his approval to the image before him.

  The next time he got Persia—or Europa—alone, there would be more of him to kiss. He grinned.

  Persia waited in her room, watching out the window for any sign of Zack. Her sister’s most persistent suitor, Seton Holloway, had strolled up the front walk nearly half an hour before, looking his usual self—preoccupied, rumpled, and a bit too eager. Europa was no doubt furious that he had come so early. That meant she had to entertain him until their other guest arrived. Any other day, she might have accomplished this by playing the piano and singing. But, of course, singing was strictly out of the question on a Sunday. Persia almost felt sorry for Europa… but not quite.

  She glanced out again and then looked toward the door. The wait would be much easier if she were downstairs with the others. But she dared not put in an appearance below before Zack arrived for fear she would be sent immediately back up to change. She cast an uncertain look at the mirror and watched as color flooded her cheeks. The change in her was shocking, she had to admit. Would Zack even recognize her? She hardly knew herself!

  The gauzy silk grenadine of Europa’s cast-off gown fit Persia as if it had never known the curves of any other woman’s body. Narrow stripes of palest blue traversed the cream-yellow background in perfect vertical lines. The demure poufed sleeves only served to accentuate the daring dip of the bodice. Had it not been for the straw embroidery on the sleeves and tight-fitting top—featherlike in design—Persia was sure the darker flesh of her nipples would have peeked through the thin material. The same decorative pattern—made by splitting ordinary wheat and applying it with an embroidery stitch—was repeated at the hemline.

  The long narrow skirt fell from just beneath Persia’s high, full breasts. When she “walked, the barest hint of the rest of her lovely figure—slim waist and rounded hips—was given away to the eye of the beholder by the soft contours of the material.

  Persia had changed her hairstyle, too. Her long hair was swept up and fixed in place at the back of her head with ivory combs. Only a few flame-colored wisps trailed down in back, while a curl on either side framed her perfect oval face. A blue ribbon, pinned with her cameo, circled her slender neck—simple, but exquisite.

  She paced the room, pretending that she was practicing walking in the narrow skirt and shaped-heel slippers. But eventually, her measured steps took her back to the window to search the distance for Zack. Still no sign of him. There was a man coming down Gay Street from the direction of Main, but she didn’t recognize him. He was certainly a fashion plate, though, in his gray beaver hat and caped scarlet greatcoat.

  He turned in their walk, and her curiosity grew. Suddenly, he paused just below, glanced up at her window, and swept the hat from his golden-brown hair. He smiled up, then offered her a bow.

  Persia’s heart seemed to stop for an instant before it raced to catch up with the blood coursing through her veins.

  She gave a nervous laugh. “It can’t be! Zack?” If she had transformed herself, he had performed an even greater miracle.

  Taking up her silk-fringed shawl and draping it becomingly about her shoulders, Persia went to her door and opened it just far enough to hear voices from the entranceway below.

  “Well, Mr. Hazzard,” boomed her father, “you’ve made it.”

  “I hope I’m not late, sir.” Zack’s voice made Persia’s pulse quicken once more.

  “Oh, certainly not. At any rate, we wouldn’t have started without you. In fact, you aren’t the last to arrive. Persia is taking her own sweet time today.”

  “Hello, Mr. Hazzard,” Persia heard her mother say. “Welcome to our home once again.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Whiddington. It is all my pleasure to be here.”

  “Captain, perhaps you had better go and fetch our youngest.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be down in a moment, my dear.”

  “A young lady must have time to dress properly, Mother.” Europa, with her sugary voice, had joined the others. “Why, Zachariah, how handsome you look this afternoon! Seton, do take his coat; I believe Fletcher is occupied in the kitchen.”

  “Of course, Miss Europa,” came a thin, male voice, and Persia could almost see Seton Holloway’s Adam’s apple bobbing.

  “Zack, come along with me to the parlor,” said Europa. “I have something there that might interest you. There’s time before dinner, I’m sure.”

  Zack’s voiced agreement propelled Persia from her room without further delay. She posed at the head of the stairs and, summoning her most seductive voice, said, “Hello, Zack. I’m so glad you could come.”

  All eyes in the hallway below stared up. Her mother’s face paled, and her hand flew to her lace-covered throat. The captain’s lips twitched in surprise, then turned up in an appreciative smile. Seton Holloway, still holding Zack’s scarlet coat as if he had been frozen where he stood, gaped at her with his mouth wide open.

  Europa already had possession of Zack’s arm but had not yet managed to smuggle him off to the parlor. Gowned in nutmeg and cinnamon bombazett with cream lace at her bosom, she made a striking picture. But, as Persia watched, her face contorted into a grimace of rage.

  “My dress!” Persia heard her say in a strangled tone.

  Persia only smiled. Not at her sister, but at Zack. He had extracted himself from Europa’s grasp and was making his way up the stairs, one strong brown hand extended toward Persia.

  His eyes devoured her as he came, caressing her face, her hair, and her thinly clad breasts until her nipples stiffened beneath the shiny straw stitching. His expression mingled desire with amazement. He gazed at her as if seeing some new wonder of the world for the first time.

  Persia felt as if she were drowning in the flood of sensations washing over her. All the others at the foot of the stairs dissolved into a hazy half-light, a halo that was only the backdrop for the man coming toward her. He was everything she needed, wanted, and must have in the world. She could not live without his touch, and she would not.

  “Persia.” Her name upon his lips was a loving demand that made her quiver in the same manner she would have if he had reached out and fondled her aching breasts.

  “Hello, Zack,” she whispered.

  One side of his mouth quirked up in a quasi smile, and he reached out toward her hand. “That’s all? Just hello?”

  She smiled back and answered, still in the barest of whispers so that the others wouldn’t hear, “Hello, and I still love you.”

  “Even in broad daylight?” he challenged.

  “Even under the blazing eye of noon.”

  He gave a low, tantalizing laugh just before he brought her hand to his lips and brushed her tender flesh with the rough silk of his mustache.

  Chapter Seven

  “Dinner is served, Captain and Mrs. Whiddington.”

  Fletcher, dressed in knee britches and jacket of the same Prussian blue as the tattooing on his cheeks, captured everyone’s immediate attention. His voice boomed like cannon fire in the shocked stillness of the entrance hall. All eyes turned from Persia and Zack to the tall servant.

  Europa fumed silently. She had been on the verge of maneuvering Zachariah away from the others so that they would be
automatically paired as dinner partners when Persia had made her entrance and spoiled it all. Now he was on the steps with her, even at this moment tucking her hand into his elbow to escort her to the table.

  The dark-haired beauty’s eyes flashed a warning, and the smallest of smiles touched her rose-petal lips. The day wasn’t over yet, and neither was this battle of wills with her sister. Persia had yet to win out against her. Europa certainly didn’t mean for this to be the first time.

  Persia, oblivious to her sister’s hard gaze, had eyes only for the man beside her. She had thought Zack was wonderful—witty, devastatingly masculine, and decidedly passionate—last night. But how much more of all of these he was by daylight, decked out in his fashionable clothes and best company manners. And he seemed just as taken with her. She never even considered the thought that he might have intended to escort Europa into the dining room. After all, Zack was hers

  Europa, deciding to make the best of a nearly hopeless situation, moved toward her own beau, the ever-present, ever-reticent Mr. Holloway. She would concentrate on using Seton to make Zack jealous. But she had wasted too much time indulging her anger.

  “My dear.” The captain offered him arm to his wife.

  “Oh, please, sir,” Europa’s lawyer beau broke in. “Allow me. Mrs. Whiddington, may I escort you?”

  “That’s dear of you, Seton. Thank you.”

  So, Europa was ushered in on her father’s arm, her cheeks flaming with indignation and her mind calculating revenge.

  The three couples moved through the wide doorway into the dining room. Suddenly Persia was aware that the room, her mother’s decorating pifece de resistance, had captured Zack’s full attention. He paused in midstep and gave a quiet gasp.

  “I never saw anything like it.”

  “And probably you never will again,” Persia told him. “Mother hired an itinerate artist to paint the walls.”