What a fool he’d been to think Xena might still be attracted to him now! If she was receiving the attentions of some rich gallant, as he felt increasingly certain she must be, what possible interest could she have in a useless half-pay soldier with one arm? A chorus of greetings met him as he entered the Black Crow, where he’d spent more debauched evenings than he could remember over the past two or three years. Clara, one of the pretty, buxom serving wenches the establishment was known for, hurried to plant a kiss on his cheek, pressing herself suggestively against him. “‘Arry, by my faith! It’s been a month and more. What c’n I give you?” Throwing his arm around her, he gave her shoulders a squeeze, then seated himself at an empty table. “Claret, as it’s nearly your namesake.” The squeeze and wink he gave her were from habit more than desire, for he was still preoccupied by thoughts of Xena. The wench snatched a just-opened bottle off the next table despite complaints from the men sitting there.
