"Ma belle," he sighed in her ear, lost once more, humours ablaze as he nuzzled and savoured, afire for her and nothing else but a few precious moments of sweet, tumbling oblivion. "Ma petite. Oui, I'll keep you warm. Je fais tu chaud… and safe."
"Oh, mon cheri," she swore, going breathless. "Mon coeur… mon amour! Aimes-moi!"
To seal her bargain, to coax him or cajole him, to winnow her way into his sympathy and affection to hold him to it, she repaid him in the only coin she had left, or perhaps understood. But with passion so intense, so open and eager, so far beyond a coquette's artful practice, that he could not believe her giving of herself so completely was totally feigned, towards the end especially. Panting on his shoulder, tears in her eyes, kisses deep and searing, softly lingering and full of gentleness and seeming affection. As if, for a time at least, the girl could shut the door on her own very real fears for her future. Phoebe had as much need as anyone to abandon herself, deny the terrifying world outside, and sink mindlessly and carefree into a sweet oblivion of her own, surrender time and time again to pleasures so imperative that rife beyond her body's sensations had no terrors which could even compare.
And sleep, at last, draped half over him, her head resting on his chest, clinging in her sleep as doggedly as he had to his raft, so light and sweet, so soft and toasty warm, with her hair spilled like a quilt over them. Sleeping peacefully, purring gentle and slow, twined about him. Completely spent yet happy.
Dreaming perhaps? he wondered as he drowsed alongside, his arms cocooning her. What did whores dream about, anyway? Her world was so narrow, so limited, and she such a willow branch to any wind that blew… did she dream of safety, new gowns, a little place to call her own? Of surviving long enough to continue her same narrow life?
He glanced at his new watch on the night stand by the firelight. Another cheap piece o' work. Just gone eleven, he yawned, completely, utterly spent himself. Yet happy as well, in his own way.
Whatever it'd been-a young whore's practiced arts to earn her passage, or a frightened girl's exquisite gratitude, some small measure of true affection and desire at last awakened-who knew, he asked the ceiling. It had been bestial, magnificent… tender. And grand.
He slept himself, then. As the skies opened and a cold sullen rain began to fall, slashing at the besieged port, driven by a half-gale of wind. Pattering and rattling on the shutters, drumming on the roof slates, making him glad he wasn't at sea on such a fearsome night.
He slept at last as real, natural thunder growled and rumbled, forcing him to nestle closer to Phoebe, to clasp her tighter and feel her reply with a snugger hug of her own as he rolled nearer. As a far-off storm voice marched closer and mingled itself with the dolorous drumming of guns.
Chapter 2
Very far off, someone was shouting something incomprehensible, which sort of sounded like "Allez, allez, vite…" mumble-mumble "le blah-blah-blah… perdu." Dull thuds somewhere. Something Froggish, Lewrie half-decided, and snuggled closer to the warmth of his girl. "… les Republicans arrivent!"
Bad dream; bugger it. Sweet, soft, warm, smooth shoulder…
More thunderings; up the stairs this time? Or the storm still rumbling… guns still rumbling? What else was new?
"Merde alors," Phoebe muttered crossly in his ear, waking first, leaning across him to listen. Her long tresses tickled his nose, half smothering him, but drew him most unwillingly nearer the surface of his pleasant stupor. He opened one eye, beheld a perky young breast, dark aureola and pinkish nipple staring back, an inch from his lips. Alan gave it a little flick with his tongue, thinking that a marvelous way to be awakened.
"Oohn," she groaned, in spite of herself, with a chuckle deep in her throat.
More bloody bangings on the door, hard and insistent.
"Alain, someone eez…" Phoebe prompted sleepily.
"Hmmphff?" he grumbled, rolling on his back. "What?"
"Alain!" a voice shouted as the door burst open with a bang.
At the sight of a man in uniform, a French naval uniform, with a brace of pistols in his belt, Phoebe gave out with a loud scream of pure Royalist terror as she sat bolt upright!
Lewrie felt his hair go on end for a second, until the dim light filtering through the shutters revealed the man to be Charles de Crillart.
"Sacre…" Charles gawped, his face suffusing.
"Christ, Charles, can't you knock, or something?" Alan carped.
"Alain, I… uhh…" Lieutenant de Crillart stuttered, his eyes swiveling from Lewrie's puffy face to Phoebe's bare charms, then back. "Mon Dieu, pardonnez-moi, mon ami…"
Lewrie sat up, claiming the top sheet to shroud his groin as he put his torso between Phoebe and de Crillart. She dragged the coverlet to her chin, huddling tiny in a corner of the bed by the headboard.
"Alain, ze Republicains," Charles explained, stepping out onto the small landing and half-closing the door. " Fort Mul-grave… c'est perdu. Lost!"
"What?" he barked, leaping from the bed for stockings and slop-trousers. "Lost! How?"
"Ze storm? Early zis morn, zey avant vis ze bayonet, wan most of notre powder waz wet, hein? Zey rout ze Espagnols, an' ze British could not 'old out. Une heure ago, zey at las' retreat, into Balaguer. Ze Republicains now 'ave Mulgrave, all ze canon… ze heights overlook L'Eguillette an' Balaguer."
"Christ, that's the end, isn't it?" he fumed, stomping into his boots, tearing his shirt from a wall peg to slip over his head.
"Zat ees non all ze worse, mon ami," Lieutenant de Crillart said in a funereal tone. "Ze sam' time zey… coordinate? General Lapoype, 'is soldiers… zey march up s'rough Arge-liers, an' zey tak' all ze posts on ze mountain of Pharon. Zey 'ave ze canon zere, too."
"Bloody hell." Lewrie paused, rubbing his face. He turned to share a look with Phoebe, who was white and blanched with fear. "Ah… any orders for us yet, Charles?" He hurried to button up his waist-coat and don his stock.
"Non," de Crillart sighed. "Eet eez still rain hard, an' ver' foggy. No one know anys'ing. Or see anys'ing."
Lewrie stepped out to join Charles now he was decent, and shut the door so Phoebe could spring from the bed and dress herself.
"Damme, Pharon gone," Alan fretted, chewing on a thumbnail for a moment. "Heated shot, and the whole place in range, far as Fort Mandrier, so we aren't safe even in the Great Road any longer. And Balaguer and L'Eguillettes under their guns, too…"
"Oui," Charles replied sadly. "Wan ze powder is dry, an' zey 'ave good view? Phfft. Tout est perdu. All eez los'."
"Your gunners, Charles… they've families in Toulon?"
"Oui, some of zem."
"Best tell them to fetch 'em. Here to the guardhouse, for the nonce," Alan decided. "Your family, too. And warn them… don't try to carry away too much of their belongings… do you get my meaning?"
"D'accord," de Crillart nodded firmly.
"I'll go up to headquarters; you take care of your own, for now," Lewrie offered. "We may not have long before the weather breaks, then not much time to arrange shipping. Surely, though, we'll try to get the troops away. And as many Royalists as want to go. I'll try for a ship."
"I will go now," Charles agreed, turning to descend the stairs.
"Charles, the girl…" Lewrie called softly to hold him. "While I'm at headquarters… do you return first? She was Mister Scott's, uhm… girl? Do you keep her safe with the other families. I promised her I would get her on a ship, when the time came. Just didn't know it'd be this bloody soon."
"Oui, I remember 'er, Alain. She eez putain, but…"
"Aye, she is," Lewrie stiffened.
"Alain, mon ami… even les putains 'ave right to live. I keep her safe, until you return."