Lewrie studied Henriette more closely. The only hints of difference he could discern were a slightly olive cast to her flawless complexion, and very full lips. Her dark red hair, though curlier, did not appear to be hennaed, and her green-hazel eyes would not have been out of place in the Germanies.
'Somezing is wrong, M'sieur Capitaine Lewrie?' she asked, feeling the intensity of his scrutiny; perhaps resenting it as a prejudice on his part, he wondered?
'In no way, Mademoiselle Henriette,' he answered, smiling more broadly, adding a touch of 'leer' to dispel her wariness. 'I was just captivated… utterly dumbstruck… by how lovely you are.'
'You are too kind, m'sieur,' Henriette purred back, her lashes fluttering most fetchingly as she leaned down a bit, allowing a promisingly soft breast to compress against his epaulet. 'But delightful to hear.'
'You do not object?' he dared to tease.
'Mais non, Capitaine Lewrie, ' Henriette replied, lowering her eyelids. 'A poor girl always enjoy the compliments.'
'And you, Henriette,' Lewrie muttered, leaning back in his seat to look up at her from even closer. 'Are you kind?'
'La, I can be trиs kind, Capitaine Lewrie,' she whispered, all but in his ear, letting her loosely gathered hair brush his shoulder. 'If you wish, that is,' she added, with that secret smile that women make when being sultrily coy. 'You would like, n'est-ce pas?'
Hell's Bells, we're doin' it on the table? Lewrie wondered to himself, as he caught sight of Cashman and Vivienne from the corner of his eye; Kit already had his wench in his lap, one hand groping about up her skirt, and sharing a soul kiss with her.
He turned back to Henriette, who wore a leer of her own after seeing what was transpiring across the table. Lewrie gently reached up and took hold of her chin to steer her lips to his, enfired by her warmth and the womanly aromas beneath her exotic, flowery perfume.
'Very much… very bloody much.' Lewrie chuckled deep in his throat, feeling her lips grinning against his mouth in agreement.
'Later, mon cher?' Henriette silently sounded against him.
'Later, chйrie… plus tard!''
'Certainement, cher Alain,' she breathed against his cheek, a moment before Vivienne gave out a yip as Cashman play-spanked her on the bottom and shooed them out.
How long's it been since I've had a whore? he asked himself; Phoebe Aretino? No, don't count. She was a mistress. Gawd, Calcutta and Canton… way back in '84?
Cashman, smugly stuffing himself with a huge smile of anticipation, and slurping lustily at his wines, made Lewrie wonder if their dining chamber would have to serve amour's purpose. It was dimly lit with only a few candles, the drapes heavy and drawn, the windows iron-barred, the wainscoting and overhead beams made of dark wood that ate what little light the candles threw. There were several settees, and a pair of chaise longues along the walls. It could have been a seraglio in a sultan's harem-one of his oldest and most enduring fantasies-but it was a rather seedy, close and stuffy seraglio, with not a breath of air stirring. Much as he liked Kit, this was…
'They have rooms t'let, I s'pose?' Lewrie asked, finally. 'Nice'uns, too,' Cashman said with an enigmatic leer. 'There's some don't wait, but I never thought of it as a spectator sport. Bad as mountin' yer filly in the middle o' Lord's cricket grounds. Try a glass o' hock with your eggs. There's a touch o' cinnamon to it that goes main-tasty with 'em, even better than champagne, t'my thinkin'.'
'I think I will, at that!' Lewrie exclaimed, reaching for one of the bottles on the sideboard, now enthused and inflamed by thoughts of pleasures to come, and filled with a boisterous, expectant bonhomie. He was relieved, too, that his sport would be the private sort and not a public spectacle, with Cashman or Vivienne deducting points for awkwardness. Fond as he was of that harem fantasy, it had always been him and a round dozen wenches, with not even a sleeping eunuch as witness. 'God… ain't it grand?' Cashman snickered with delight as he hoisted his glass to be refilled.
'Not too much, though, good as the wines are,' Lewrie cautioned. 'Ah, plus tard, hey? Can't take yer jumps if foxed blind.' 'It did come to mind,' Lewrie happily rejoined. 'Yoicks… tallyho!' Cashman crowed.
Henriette was incredibly kind, upstairs in an airy room lined with wide-shuttered doors and window coverings that let in a blissful breeze of much cooler air, down off the high mountains to the east.
A lone trio of finger-narrow candles lit the chamber, barely illuminating anything beyond the bedstead, yet throwing mesmerising shadows against the walls and shutters with each mild gust. Up that high above the fouled and littered streets of Port-Au-Prince, it was refreshing to escape the miasma of too much garbage, and the reek of too many people. And those gently flickering candles threw such enchanting highlights and shadows over Henriette's fine body, too, limning a chiaroscuro portrait in ambers and black hollows, making her even more exotic than she already was.
The sheets were clean, if 'wormed' with small seams of repairs, and were redolent of soap and sunlight. The candles were local-made, scented with flowers, almost as sharp on the nose as Chinee joss-sticks or very High Church incense. Henriette had dabbed on fresh scent, too, after they'd locked and barred the door, and that was all over the bedstead, the pillows, and him, by then; for, cool as was that breeze, it was still a warm and humid tropic night, and they had perspired… oh, how they had perspired, in the throes of lust! The more common term of 'sweated' came to Lewrie's mind; sweated like coolie labourers loading cargo on Jackass Point in Canton, or Hindoos up the Hooghly River! But more than worth it, he smugly decided, stifling a yawn as he sprawled beside her, getting his breath back, and watching the candle patterns dance on the overhead canopy of the bedstead.
There came a stronger gust of wind, a cooler and welcome zephyr.
'It rains,' Henriette whispered. Sure enough, the zephyrs were followed by the faintest plashing of raindrops on the balcony. There was a basso rumble of faraway thunder, and an eyeblink's flicker upon the shutters from a fork of distant lightning, the wide wood shutters thrown in blue relief for a second. 'Mon, Dieu, merci. '
Lewrie sat up and groped to the foot of the bed for a discarded sheet, to fan it and lift it to trap the cooler air, to let it fall slowly and drape over them, then fan it to soar and hang, again.
'Merci to you, too, cher Alain.' She smiled, getting up on one elbow to face him and reward him with another token of kindness on his lips. 'I have the basin… you wish me to sponge you? You are trиs hot? I cool you?'
'Better I get to sponge you, Henriette,' he chuckled, reclining once more with his hands under his head and the pillow. 'I don't wish t'get too cool. A certain… heat… is required, ain't it? Uhm, l'ardour? La passion?'
'But you were born with the passion, mon amour, ' she told him. 'Mon Dieu … so formidable^'
Whores ' lies, he thought; but… so pleasin'!
She slid out of bed on the window side, all those delectably shadowed hollows and sweat-sheened bright spots awakening his interest anew. Lean waist, long slim neck and arms, with entrancing hollows at throat and collarbones… firm, round and jutting young breasts that nearly defied Newton 's laws of gravity, a bouncy round and firm bottom, strong-thewed thighs… with such a seductive dark hollow between.
She peeked flirtatiously over her shoulder as she walked to the windows, rolling her hips, chuckling over the effect she knew she had on him. At the nearest window she posed herself, drew open the shutters and stood
