It is a fine French wine, he gathers from the Count's discussion of grapes and soil and intricacies of taste. All Bush knows is that it wets his throat and washes down dinner and keeps him from having to speak, even his English sounding too loud and stilted in the fine room with its china and silver and sleekly polished wood.

He excuses himself as quickly as he can, leaving Hornblower and the Count and the woman alone as he stumps and stumbles off with the bottle clenched in his hands, using its thick weight on his tongue to push away the pain that still comes with every step.

Alone, in his room, he drinks it down, draining the shimmering red in long swallows that burn his throat and his chest, but make the ache subside to the point where he can only feel a dull throb in the distance, like a pain that belongs to someone else, a pain he's borrowed for a short while.

"Monsieur Bush?"

He laughs at the sound of his name, bungled and stretched out as if he's several extra syllables to his name. He realizes somewhere that he shouldn't laugh, shouldn't make fun of this woman trying so hard to make him comfortable, make him at home in this place where he doesn't speak the language, doesn't even understand the language that he speaks, spoken with tongues that make English sound exotic. Erotic.

"Come."

She closes the door behind her and he can hear the swish of her skirts like it's the wind seducing canvas sails in the dark. He spies the bottle in her hand. "I thought perhaps you might like another drink. Like to share one."

He sees the way she watches Hornblower. He sees her eyes on him like she's navigating his soul, trying to figure out shoals and rocks and current and he knows better than she ever will that he's unable to be mapped, ever-changing, the sands beneath the water shifting at every turn. He should turn her away knowing all this, but the pain spikes again and he feels it down in the foot he no longer has and up into his thigh, to his groin and he want something to deaden it.

"A drink." He doesn't bother with French, doesn't understand it, and doesn't dare say the wrong thing lest she go and take the bottle with her. As it is, she walks over to him and sets the bottle on the bedside table as she settles next to him, her knee against his hip, her skirts flared out like a billowing flag. He wonders at her colors, her allegiance as she rests her hand on his chest, sliding it over the loosened collar of his shirt and down to the flat plane of his stomach.

"Or two." She smiles at him, her hand warm against his skin as if the fabric wasn't between them. "I 'ave brought a bottle."

"I haven't glasses."

She nods her understanding and takes a drink from the bottle itself, setting it aside as she leans in, her mouth grape-sweet and wet, red and warm. He kisses her and tastes more than wine on her lips. He slides his hand into her hair, destroying the fancy style; shattering it with his thick fingers as he unfasten pins and stays, letting it all tumble down in sleek and shiny strands that frame her face in the candlelight.

Her mouth opens more against his, her tongue sliding into his mouth, tangling with his. Her hand fists against his stomach, bunching his shirt in her grip as her free hand sinks into the pillow beside his head, supporting her as he slides his free hand to her hip, his thumb weaving slow circles there.

Marie pulls back, breaking the kiss for an instant before finding his mouth again, murmuring softly against his lips. He silences her with a hard kiss, shifting his grip from her hip to her waist, pulling her down against him. She shivers in his grip, making a soft, helpless sound into his mouth.

He's seen Hornblower with women, and knows that he cannot provide Marie with this, provides no one with this. He is gentle and delicate, uncertain until need overtakes him and he drives for completion. Bush is not gentle. He takes, demands and requires, and he can feel Marie press against him, giving everything he wants.

He uses his good foot to lever them, pulling her onto the bed with him, beneath him. She's hot and supple, her body giving way where his goes as he supports himself on one elbow, still tasting the wine on her lips as his free hand rucks up her skirts, pushing past layer after layer of fabric to find smooth skin, legs parted to cradle his thighs.

His hand slides up her skin, finding wet flesh and parting it, his fingers sliding inside her easily. She's warm and ready, wet for him, ready for his fingers to push deep, his thumb against the bundle of nerves above. She kisses him hungrily, her hands tugging at his nightshirt. He pulls away from the kiss to allow her to wrench it over his head. It lies on the bed beside them, tangled against her leg and his arm as he continues pushing his fingers deeper, sliding a third in to the heat of her, moisture clinging to his fingers in the damp cave of her skirts.

Wetness floods his fingers, sliding between and around them. He groans against her chest, burying the sound in the muslin of her dress, his mouth hot over her breast. He can feel her flesh responding and groans again, wanting her naked beneath him, on top of him, around him. He feels the wine in his system, pulsing a dark vein through the bright red of his blood.

"William." She whispers his name, though he knows the rest of the house has gone to sleep, drugged with wine and spirits and boredom in this endless winter. It sounds just as foreign to his ears as his surname, twisted around her tongue. He rolls away from her, wincing at the pain in his leg. Marie lies there, watching him for a moment before standing, unfastening her dress and letting it fall to the floor. He watches as the heavy fabric puddles at her feet, watches her body's silhouette beneath the soft shift left behind.

She lifts the thin garment and steps onto the bed, straddling his thighs. He can feel the soft give of her flesh against the hard muscle beneath his, can feel the fabric rustling against his stomach as she pushes his nightshirt up and lowers herself onto his shaft. Marie makes another soft noise and he can catalogue them like the sigh of sails in wind, knows how to read her like the weather.

She sinks down on him and he groans, low and deep in his throat. She is slick and hot and wet against him - summer rain off the coast of Coiba, head tilted back to feel the heated air practically evaporating the rain before it could land. He grips her hips and guides her, grunting with every thrust upward. His heel digs into the mattress, his wooden leg slipping against the mattress with every stroke.

Marie pushes his shirt up, her hands raking through the thick hair on his chest, scratching at his nipples with short nails. Bush tightens his hold on her, his hips rising sharply as she tightens around him, her knees digging into him, her heels hitting the base of his stump where the leather strap holds the wooden peg against his flesh.

He curses softly, exhaling with a shaky gasp as she begins speaking in French, her hands stroking him, her mouth finding his with desperate apologies. He pulls her away, hands tighter still on her hips, pulling her down against him as he rocks upward, desperate now with pain shooting through him, echoing like the sound of cannon fire in his head. He clenches his teeth, cursing again, cursing her until he can feel her skin bruising in his grasp as he comes.

She slumps against him for a moment, trying to catch her breath. He releases her hips and lies still as she shifts off of him, gathering her dress and holding it against her. She looks at him for a long moment and then reaches out, touching his cheek gently before her hand moves to the bedside table.