Silver-Tongued Temptress

by Sara Ackerman

  “Aba’s gone now, visiting her sister in Guernsey. It’s me you have to worry about, and if I have my way, you’ll be chained to the bed most of the time she’s gone.”

  If possible, she melted further in his embrace and purred. “Why, Luka, you’ll undo all of Aba’s hard work if you keep me in bed day and night. Most likely, though, I’ll expire from all the pleasure you’ll give me instead of any pain you might cause to my injuries. In any case, what a way to go.”

  The image of her naked and sprawled on the bed, her arms raised above her head, had him regretting his rash words, yet having said them the image remained. A tightening in his groin prompted him to shift her weight on his lap so she rested between his legs, her rounded bottom cradled on the sand. “Patience. You have been sick far too long and must regain your strength.”

  “Being a clan chief has made you too serious by half and has curbed your appetite for a little fun.” He heard the pout in her voice. “We are married, and there is no harm to indulging in some marital exercise.”

  “Not until you are well.” Convincing her of her continued weakness had possibilities for success. If he could keep her in bed convalescing, she’d not insist on any marital activities. If I coddle and pamper her enough, she’ll be too content to protest. It was a solid plan and eased his conscience, yet the more his body became reacquainted with hers, the desire to drag her back to the cottage and exercise those marital rights became an incessant clamor, heating his blood and whipping it to a frenzied riot of need and lust.

  He needed to get away from her, but trapped as he was, a tree behind him and her warm body in front of him, he had few options. He latched onto the first topic which came to mind. “What caused you to awaken?”

  “I had a bad dream.” As if sensing his retreat, she snuggled deeper in his arms and hid her head in his shirt.

  “Do you wish to tell me about it?” Distracted by the fresh scent of her hair, now silver in the full moon’s light, he played with the silken masses of her curls, disgusted with himself when the sensual pleasure of her silky hair caused his hands to shake.

  “I remembered the day I found you kissing the village girl behind the church and how angry I was.”

  “Ah. What an unforgettable day.”

  She slapped him on the chest. “You mistake my meaning on purpose.”

  “I know.”

  “I was so horrible to you afterwards, when I…when I…”

  “You were young. It’s forgotten.”

  “Not by me. You could have been deported or hanged. I should never have lied. I put you and my sisters in danger.”

  “Your father put your sisters in danger when he asked Aba to curse you.” He snorted. “Ridiculous man. As if the Rom have magical powers. We are mortal the same as he.”

  “Yes, but we were unaware. As far as my sisters or I were concerned, your grandmother was capable of great and terrible magic.” She shuddered. “Had you seen her as I did, you’d have believed as well.”

  “She told me about it, later, after we had left and were on our way back to France. She said the sky darkened and the wind whipped around the clearing. It almost had her believing she was magical.”

  “What a horrible child I was.”

  “Forgive yourself. Young girls in love do funny things.”

  “I’m glad you came back to me.”

  The night breeze swirled across the ocean, bringing with it the smell of fall and a foretaste of the winter to come.

  “Luka? What’s wrong? Do you regret coming for me?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  She twisted in his arms to look at him, her eyes wide and wary. “Everything has changed since the accident. I have, to be sure, but so have you. You’re altered as am I. There are my dreams with such disturbing images. Sometimes I see—”

  “What do you see?” he asked, his voice calm and gentle. Maybe this is it. Maybe she has seen images of what I need to know.

  “Nothing makes sense. The images are jumbled and of unfamiliar people and places. Something happened before the accident, but my memory has as many holes as Mother’s Belgian lace. I’m confused and scared, and I worry you no longer care for me or with my injuries you don’t find me attractive. I worry my injuries frighten you, and for this reason you have decided to remain distant.”

  “There is more to the story than this one narrative. Much has happened of which you remain unaware.”

  “You don’t have to explain. Much has transpired between us. When you’re ready you’ll tell me.”

  “Do you ever wish I hadn’t returned?”

  “Why would I? Your return restored a semblance of normality. It gave me a reason to hope when there had been none for years.”

  “You would have gotten over me eventually and in time seen the curse was a fake. My return did nothing but resurrect anger and resentment for your father. You never were the same after I told you what had happened.”

  “He had lied to us. All three of us believed we had been cursed. Evie couldn’t speak. Amelia spoke the most awful truths, and no one believed a word I said. If anything, your return brought back my sanity. You had died, or at least so the rumors said, my lie having killed you. For years, I mourned your passing and blamed myself for your death.”

  “My actions little deserved such devoted mourning. I compromised you, jeopardized your security, and endangered your welfare. Pleasurable as our joining was, I was older, and it was my duty to guard you against scandal. My God, even now you could be married to a man of your station, not injured and outcast from your family.”

  “My family? For years, my family perpetrated a cruel hoax, making my sisters and me believe God had smote us for our lie, while it was my father who had decided to punish us. In spite of my sisters’ refusal to believe the curse had been false, at least I knew. With you there, I had a safe place and strong arms to run to. Even had you not returned, I was preparing to run away and find your family, to seek forgiveness and beg to stay with them.”

  “To what end?”

  “To whatever end they needed me. I know I could never have replaced you, but I was willing to offer myself in service to your family. I loved them, Luka, like my own. I always have.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “But I told you. Don’t you remember?”

  He remembered all right. It had been midsummer of her thirteenth year, and she had snuck out of the nursery to meet him by the great bonfire. All night he and his family had laughed, danced, and sung. Tris had too, her cheeks flushed and rosy from the flames’ heat and the exertions of dancing around the burning wood. Her smile had rivaled even the fire’s brilliance, and he had fallen all the way in love with her. As dawn’s early light streaked the sky and birds’ calls echoed across the trees, he had walked her home. Before slipping in the servant’s entrance, she whispered her secret in his ear. She loved him and his family.

  But I didn’t believe her. He had judged her too harshly and had dismissed her sentiment because a love between nobility and nomad was as rare as a rose in winter. In how many more ways could he hurt her?

  “I regret nothing, Husband. Do you?”

  Yes, there are so many regrets, most of which involve you, my heart, but I have caused you enough pain for a lifetime. I shall spare you my guilty conscience’s confession. “You’re right. It was for the best.”

  “Besides, if you hadn’t returned, we’d never have come to an understanding, and I’d be rotting away on my father’s estate, a lonely social pariah.”

  Unable to resist, he repositioned her in his lap, chuckled, and brushed his lips over her hair. “I doubt it. You were too vibrant and too tempting to simply waste away, alone and unnoticed.”

  Her body sagged and her head drooped. Sleep was not far from claiming her. “Hmm?”

  “Go to sleep. I’ve got you.”

  And, God help me, I don’t know how I am going to leave you again.

  Chapter 8

  London, England, May 1800


  He had left her. Irritated, Beatrice scanned the crowded ballroom for a glimpse of her betrothed, Marquis the Lord George Darimple. The orchestra launched into a lilting melody signaling the supper waltz, yet her partner with his charming smiles was nowhere to be found.

  Amused titters cut through the noise of the ballroom, and she turned to glare at the group of debutantes laughing at her predicament. They had undoubtedly seen her indiscreet search and found delight in her seeming unease. She turned her frosty stare on them, arched an eyebrow, and glared. One by one, the other girls blushed and studied the floor. There was a reason Beatrice was the Incomparable. Setting aside her golden good looks, svelte feminine form, and handsome dowry, she also had snagged the most eligible bachelor of the season after one meeting.

  “Which is why it is so irksome he has decided to abandon me,” she muttered.

  Beatrice was accustomed to receiving what she wanted, and it was a rare occurrence when she experienced disappointment.

  There was one notable exception to this rule. She hadn’t been able to keep Luka, no matter how much she had loved him. She pushed aside the unpleasant combination of anger and grief and schooled her features to its usual mask of calm, cool hauteur. Since Luka’s defection almost a month ago, it was a useful look to hide her emotions, which were too raw and exposed to bring out and examine. Hence the look. It spoke of confidence and bored disdain, and though neither lurked inside, it had served its purpose of reminding those silly, simpering debs who controlled this ballroom.

  “There you are, my lady.”

  Bea controlled her anger and resisted the urge to spin and chide her betrothed for his ill-timed withdrawal from her side. “I didn’t know I was missing,” she said, placing her gloved hand upon his superfine navy-blue coat and gifting him with a placid smile.

  His blue eyes twinkled, though a hint of a challenge lurked in their steely depths. “You did,” he whispered. “You noticed and worried I’d leave you standing here without a partner.”

  “Maybe, though the loss of a dance is of little consequence when compared to the absence of your company.” The sweet smile she forced to her lips about gagged her, but she had a role to play, and appeasing her betrothed was of utmost importance.

  “So you missed me, my lady, did you?” He took her in his arms and spun her onto the ballroom floor, and she gave herself over to the lilting rhythm of the waltz.

  “Perhaps I did. Perhaps I didn’t,” she said, teasing, and winced when his hand tightened around hers. He twirled her to the exterior of the ballroom and out onto a balcony which led to a walkway through their host’s fragrant gardens.

  “What are we doing out here?” A nervous tremor laced her question. She fluttered her hands away from his, smoothed her skirts, and smothered the instinctive urge to run. For even if he were her betrothed and a respected peer, she bristled whenever he was near. In time, she’d grow accustomed to him, and this unsettling suspicion he was more beast than man would fade.

  At least I hope it will.

  “I left to arrange a surprise for you.”

  “A surprise? How delightful. Will you show me?” Her response had pleased Lord Darimple, for he smiled at her delight and took her hand with more consideration than he had on the ballroom floor.

  “Come, I’ll show you.” He led her to the balcony steps and through the garden. They stopped upon reaching a small gazebo tucked behind a grove of trees on the far edge of their host’s property. Someone had taken the time to light the sconces, and the warm firelight cast a cheery glow on the small building.

  “It’s lovely.” They entered the gazebo, and Bea took in the scene—Champagne on ice, two glasses, and a blanket adorned the floor.

  “What’s all this?” True nervousness beset her. Even though this was what she had hoped would happen, the imminence of the event’s arrival did little to ease her fears.

  He pulled her onto the blanket, and they sat. “Our betrothal was contracted with such haste, we haven’t had much time to acquaint ourselves. Let’s remedy our situation, shall we?”

  “Won’t people notice our absence?”

  “We are betrothed. The other guests will expect us to sneak off for a little romance. Don’t worry. I’ll not do anything you don’t want.”

  She took the proffered glass of Champagne and drank. “I can’t see any harm in getting to know each other.”

  “What a good girl.” He refilled her glass. “Let’s make you more comfortable.” Lord Darimple removed her gloves one by one and tossed them aside. Holding her hand in his, he returned her half-empty glass to her other hand. “Better?”

  She swallowed the rest of her Champagne and resisted the urge to respond how she wished. When she placed the glass on the blanket, he loomed over her, his intent obvious even to a green girl of eighteen. He examined the modest neckline of her ivory gown and slipped a hand under the fabric to cup her breast. She hissed out a warning. “This isn’t a good idea,” she whispered as he kissed her neck, all the while fondling her sensitive flesh.

  “Relax, Tris.” She shuddered at hearing Luka’s nickname for her on his lips. “It’ll be over before you know it.”

  For good measure, she feigned a struggle, but he subdued her with his powerful body, pushed her back to the blanket, lifted her skirts, and entered her with one swift surge. Something inside of her ripped, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out in pain. When she would have thrashed and bucked, she forced herself to remain motionless until her betrothed was done. She didn’t have to wait too long, for he gave a final push and collapsed on top of her. His retreat was almost immediate, and it brought swift relief to her limbs, which had been trapped beneath him while he rutted. As he straightened himself out, she rearranged her skirts, gathered her gloves, and stood, hands clasped in front of her, and he finished the repairs to his costume.

  “There was hardly any blood.” He straightened his cravat in a more respectable position. “Are you sure you were a virgin?”

  She flicked an imaginary dirt speck off her bodice and raised her chin. “Of course I was, but I’m also an active female who likes riding. Mother told me there might not be much blood because of it.” She lifted a delicate shoulder. “You may cancel our betrothal if you wish, but I speak the truth when I say I was a virgin until tonight in your arms.”

  She waited for him to probe further, but instead of anger or censure, he leered at her. “You like to ride, do you?” He slapped her on the rump and took her hand in his. “Once we’re married, I’ll make sure you have plenty of practice.” Lord Darimple laughed at his own joke, though she didn’t find it to be of particular amusement. “Come on. I’ll send word to your mother you’ve taken ill and I’m escorting you home.”

  She allowed her betrothed to escort her to his carriage. She allowed him to fondle her breasts once they were in the carriage, and she allowed him to stick his tongue in her mouth before she exited his carriage. She even allowed him to linger at her door for far longer than was decent while he reminded her again to whom she would soon belong.

  For someone who never allowed anything to be done to her, she knew herself to be acting with uncharacteristic passivity, yet she cared not. Lord Darimple was free to take whatever liberties he wished with her body; it no longer mattered. Her body was a simple shell which sheltered her wounded heart and battered soul. To those, she would never grant him access, and though her pride demanded she reassert herself and send Darimple home with a flea in his ear, there was another who was far more precious to her than her wounded pride or broken heart. If her body was the price for its safety, she would exchange her power and will to this man.

  Once Lord Darimple had left, Bea climbed the stairs and dismissed her maid. Undressing with haste, she washed away the night’s activities, pulled on her nightgown, and slipped under the covers.

  No, she didn’t love Lord Darimple, but at least his name would protect her child. God protect her if he ever found out it wasn’t his.

  Though exhaust
ion left her cold and weak, sleep, much like her sense of peace, eluded her.

  Chapter 9

  Herm, Channel Islands, September 1810

  Sleepless, lust-filled nights, enforced inactivity as Beatrice’s nursemaid, and constant worry her memories were forever lost had destroyed all but a small pocket of Luka’s remaining vestiges of good humor. His irritation, though, had been honed to a knife’s edge. Concern for Bea’s welfare and the secrets she possessed had produced a brief tempering to the steely brunt of his displeasure, and for now, his frustrations remained sheathed.

  This morning’s walk to Herm’s small port on the western side of the island had served to whet his anger until it was a fine-edged weapon he was eager to wield.

  The walk itself was in no way upsetting. He journeyed the short distance to the port daily to talk to the fishermen before they left for the morning’s catch and to see if a supply run from the main island had delivered news from his grandmother stating she was ready to return to Herm. In almost two months of daily walks, he had received nothing aside from the occasional tip of where fish were biting. Today, a letter awaited him. Not from Aba requesting he fetch her but from Fortier.

  His people were in danger.

  As soon as he spied the letter with his name written in Fortier’s unmistakable hand, dread had taken root in his chest. A letter was one omen his people did not ignore. While his clan was literate and could write, there was little need to do so when everyone lived and traveled together. On the rare occurrences when family was parted, the written word was used to convey situations of extreme distress.

  “And where am I?” he asked the silent cottage kitchen as he hacked through an apple, the force of his slicing blow rendering much of the fruit to mush. “Thousands of miles away playing nursemaid to my childhood sweetheart.”

  When he had bid Fortier and Andres to take the clan to Russia, their safety was his primary concern, yet his instincts had failed him. He’d sent them to the heart of danger.