Silver-Tongued Temptress

by Sara Ackerman

  “Not at first, but she was so persistent in her belief we were man and wife… The sneaky wench kept climbing into my bed or else she’d flit about the house half dressed. I was going mad!”

  “So you devised a way for her to stay busy to guard her virtue?”

  “Or mine. I didn’t know what else to do. She was angry with me, all right, and botched every task I gave her, but it kept her out of my bed. I’d not compromise her, not when she was ill and adrift.”

  “But if she had been hale and her memories whole?”

  “I’m noble, not neutered.” Luka snorted and threw another log in the fire. “When I confronted her today, I told her we weren’t married. Something inside her snapped. She cowered and winced whenever I came near. She called me George.”

  “Her husband. He was a mean son of a bitch. I’m not sorry he’s dead.”

  “I’m glad, or else I’d hang when I returned to England to exact the pound of flesh he owes Tris.”

  Against his will, Thomas’s attitude toward the other man softened. He questioned his own reactions in a similar situation, a young man thrust into a position of consequence, responsible for the lives of many. He might have left, too, and spared the woman he loved the hardships he’d have faced. As for the ridiculous farce and their pretend marriage, Thomas believed the man had not taken advantage of Beatrice and had done his best to see her cared for and safe. Damn it. When I’m ready to punch the man and tear him limb from limb for harming Beatrice, he shows himself to be an honorable man who takes his responsibilities seriously. Grudging admiration grew.

  “There is a grave marker on my property in England. I had it erected when Beatrice came to live with me. You may visit, if you desire. She named the child Gabriel Lucas. The grave is empty, for the child’s remains are not there. Beatrice does not know what happened to him after he died. The child’s death and disappearance remain an open wound to this day.”

  “Thank you, Thomas. Maybe one day I will return to England and visit the boy’s grave, but for now, I am needed elsewhere. Tomorrow I’ll fetch my grandmother and wend my way to Russia, where my clan waits. Beatrice will be in good hands on her return to England.”

  “My journey, alas, is taking me to France. The man Beatrice fought the night of the explosion is rumored to be alive. Reports he has been spotted in Paris have arisen, and my superiors have ordered me to verify their truth.”

  “And if he’s alive?”

  “Kill him once and for all.”

  “And if you can’t? Will Tris continue to be in danger from this man?”

  “I’ll stop him.”

  “How can you be so sure you’ll succeed?”

  “Because he raped my mother and forced her into a life of servitude, so it is my duty to see the evil bastard is wiped from existence.”

  Luka whistled. “Does Bea know about your vendetta?”

  “To some extent.”

  “You mean to the extent you were willing to tell her.”

  “She was told he is a threat to her country. And he is.”

  “You used her.”

  “No more than you.”

  “I didn’t knowingly send her to danger.”

  “No, you pretended an affection when none existed.”

  Luka jumped to his feet and towered over Thomas. “Don’t twist what I shared with Tris into something manipulative and evil. I loved her so much I was willing to walk away, to set her free to love someone who could give her what she needed.”

  “She needed you, and you weren’t there! I was left to gather the pieces of her failed marriage and her heartbreak over losing you. It took me years to win her trust, and years more to earn her love. Where were you? Don’t tell me you loved her. Not when leaving her nearly ended her life.”

  “I may not have been there when she needed me, but I would have if I had known. I love her to this day.”

  “Not enough to stay, because once again, you’re running away.”

  “Do not insult me by suggesting I’m a coward. I have responsibilities outside my own desires, so take your sanctimony and shove it up your arse, Thomas. What about you? You claim to love her, too, but not enough to tell her the truth.”

  Stefano snapped his jaws together, his silent fuming glare fuel for Thomas’s own raging anger. His nostrils flared, and he calculated the distance over the fire, the urge to wrap his hands around Stefano’s throat a physical ache.

  He lurched when a stiff breeze carried through the clearing and sparks shot off from the main campfire. Both men jumped back to avoid the live embers. By the time the breeze settled and the flames no longer leapt out of its secure circle, Thomas’s anger had receded. Across the circle, Stefano had dropped his arms to his side, the black fire of anger receding and gusting away with the wind. He slumped to the sand, propping his chin in his hand. Thomas joined him.

  “Neither of us has been honorable to her,” Thomas said, breaking the awkward silence.

  “I can’t offer her more than when I left her ten years ago.”

  “And I can’t tell her the truth yet.”

  “Neither of us deserves her.”

  “You’re right. What are we going to do about it?”

  “I’ll return to my family and leave her in peace. My reemergence in her life has been tainted by lies and manipulation. In time, maybe she’ll remember the good moments we shared with passing fondness.”

  “I was going to take her with me to find Michelson, but I can no longer countenance sending her to danger. I’ll secure her passage to England, and find my father on my own.”

  “At least she’ll be safe.” Stefano grew quiet and sprawled in the sand, his soft snores an irritant grating on his already troubled mind.

  Thomas stared at the flames long into the night. Restless sleep found him in the early hours of morning, and bird song heralded him awake. He rose and walked to the cottage, alarmed to find the door flung wide open. Someone had thrust a knife in the wooden plank. The sharp tip held a single piece of white paper. Ripping the paper from the knife’s hold, he scanned the letter.

  “Stefano, wake up! Damn it all. She’s gone to France!”

  Chapter 22

  Maryport, England, May 1810

  Maryport in Cumberland was a quaint village near the Irish Sea. Built on the remains of an ancient Roman fort, it integrated modern and timeless design to create a charming and unique town. Regimented cobblestone roads, enduring evidence of the Romans’ far-reaching influence, took Beatrice to the town’s center, where she found a local pub. With a few discreet inquiries, and several greased palms, she had the information she desired regarding Anthony Longe’s whereabouts. Remounting her steed, she followed the paved road to the edge of town, where the newly erected lighthouse stood, a beacon of light for the distressed at sea. It also served as a notable landmark, for despite Anthony Longe’s best efforts to remain hidden on the outskirts of town, his cottage’s proximity to the lighthouse had ensured his presence remained fresh in the townspeople’s minds.

  Beatrice slowed her mount as the lighthouse came into view, and she spied the dirt road forking off from the main thoroughfare. With a flick of her reins, she maneuvered her mount onto the narrow path, careful to walk at a sedate pace lest her horse’s hooves announce her arrival. Though the sea’s crash and roar deafened most other sounds, she knew a man like Longe, a hired mercenary with a sizable bounty on his head, would be more alert to the minutest disturbances than most. Upon spying the house, a small, thatched, whitewashed cottage surrounded by towering trees and dense foliage, she dismounted and stole a quick peek through the dirt-smudged windows. Someone was at home, for a husky figure sat slouched in a chair before the hearth, a glass clutched in his hands. She tethered her mount at the back of the house and rubbed him with grass, promising him a more thorough currying when she finished her business with Anthony Longe.

  After much debate, she had decided to present herself to Longe as a man. Though the idea to play the damsel in distress and use
her considerable charms to coerce the man to do as she desired had its merits, she did not wish to appear weak, a distinct disadvantage when dealing with unsavory sorts. “At least I look the part,” she said, glancing at her state of dishabille and grimacing. Her shirt was dirty, wrinkled, and coming out from her breeches, and a ripe aroma wafted from her underarms. Mud caked her boots and speckled her tan riding pants, and grime encrusted her fingernails and coated her face. Her golden curls lay like greasy ropes around her face, and she sighed, knowing the day she’d need to shear her locks was fast approaching. After a halfhearted attempt to straighten her person, she tucked her golden curls under her cap and knocked on the cottage door.

  The door slanted open, and two hard eyes peered through the crack. “What do you want?” a gruff voice growled.

  “You Longe?” she asked, careful to lower her voice to a harsh rasp. She tugged the cap farther over her forehead and took Longe’s measure. Not as tall as his brother Andrew, the man before her possessed the same chestnut locks and brown eyes, but where Lord Smith’s had been warm and open, his younger brother’s possessed a hard, calculating glint.

  “What’s it to you?” he sneered, spitting on the ground

  She was undeterred by his bristling anger and rested her arm on the jamb. “I’ve business to discuss with the one they call the Pirate Longe.”

  “We’ve no business together, stranger, and it’s to your fortune we don’t. Heed my warning and be gone before I decide you are worth my notice.” He tried to close the door, but she had inserted her foot between the door and the jamb and braced her shoulder against the solid wooden plank. He scowled.

  “You’re captain of The Stallion of the Sea. I’m your new first mate.”

  “Ho-ho! Someone esteems himself in high regard. You’re nothing more than a puny stoat, no more fit to be my first mate than you are to shine my shoes.” In his amusement, Longe had released his hold on the door, and she took the opportunity to shove her way into the cottage.

  His scowl deepened at her intrusiveness, and she recalled one of Master Jones’s earliest lessons: An angry man is a malleable one, for anger overpowers judgment. As long as her behavior continued to upset him, she had the advantage. Best to press forward before he grew wise to her game. “But first mate I will be, for I assure you, as fierce as your reputation as pirate smuggler, I am better.” She walked to the sideboard, selected a glass, and poured herself a sizable amount of whisky from the opened bottle. Sidling to the small table, she turned the chair around and straddled the seat.

  He remained wary, but he grunted and sat opposite her. “Such boastfulness for one so young and frail. The first storm we’d encounter at sea, and you’d be knocked overboard, or you’d be green at the gills and puking all over the deck. No, you’re no sailor, boy. Who filled your head with such optimistic drivel?”

  She drained her glass and set it on the table with a clank. “Do not confuse size with strength,” she said, pleased to note his increased color and agitation. “I have been trained by the best.”

  “Who would take on such a weakling?”

  “Have you heard of Ching Shih?” He blanched, and she laughed. “I see you have.”

  “You lie. How did you, a mere nothing of a boy, come to be trained by the pirate queen herself?”

  Beatrice had lied. Oh, she knew who Ching Shih was. Master Jones had instructed her on the woman’s influence when she had sailed to China seven years ago. Chinese sailors under Master Jones’s command had taught her everything she knew about sailing and commanding a ship and had ensured her safety while she was learning. Never having met the woman was a mere technicality. It had, however, been a possibility, for the woman dominated the China Sea. From all accounts, she was fierce, and her rules were law. Everyone who sailed knew it, too, but Beatrice had never had the bad fortune to experience her laws firsthand. Longe, though, didn’t need to know that particular detail.

  “As I told you before, I was trained by the best, and I will be your first mate, if not captain,” she said. She selected an apple from the small bowl in the middle of the table and took a bite, almost choking on the first bite from restrained laughter. His eyes bulged, and a vein in his forehead throbbed. Finally. I’ve pushed him to the edge. Now to tip him over. She grimaced and spit the apple piece onto the floor. “What a mealy piece of shite. Is this the caliber of food the dread pirate eats? Whoever told me you were a man of discriminating tastes was wrong. You’re no better than the locals, drinking the tavern piss the pub keeper passes for ale. I’d sooner sail a dinghy with a leper than serve under you.”

  Longe’s nostrils flared, and the acrid tang of sweat mixed with violent excitement hung between them. Her own pulses sped in anticipation. “You insolent little pup. I ought to wring your neck for such disrespect.”

  “Do it.”

  His hands on the scarred wooden table twitched, and she tensed her leg muscles, springing from her seat as he lunged for her across the table. He roared and threw the table against the sideboard, and turned, a rage-filled mask contorting his placid features. She watched him from the open doorway and sprinted as he chased after her. When he was halfway out the door, she slammed the door on his arm, trapping it between jamb and rough wooden plank. He grabbed her and wrapped an arm about her waist, pulling her in to a one-sided embrace. Instead of struggling, she released the pressure on the door, twined her arms around his neck, and pulled herself over his head to perch on his shoulders. With her thighs wrapped around his neck, she squeezed until he staggered and fell to his knees. When he pounded the ground with his hand, she pushed him to the dirt and released him from between her thighs. The man collapsed and rolled over, cradling his injured arm.

  “Who are you?” he gasped, gazing at her in disgruntled admiration.

  “I am Captain Allen Braithwaite, and I am your salvation, Anthony Smith,” she said, using his given last name instead of the pseudonym under which he sailed. “And I am here to steal your command.”

  ****

  After some cursory snarling, an unfortunate reprisal of Longe’s attempt to strangle her, and a heated discussion in which her elbow remained lodged in the man’s trachea and her knife blade a whisper from his cods, Anthony Longe agreed to cede his command of The Stallion to her.

  Two weeks later they approached the eve of his departure. They had arrived in Oban several days past and were waiting for their employer to finish some business before sailing for Southampton and on to France. Beatrice had grown to admire Anthony Longe, and while his choice of career was at odds with her sense of duty, she could not fault the man’s work ethic or leadership. He ran a tight ship with absolute discipline, and while the sailors were thieves, they maintained a strict ethical code which ensured the safety and prosperity of everyone who sailed. His ship was well run.

  “My ship, now,” she said, and took in the sparse wooden furnishings in the captain’s quarters and her few belongings she had just transferred to the room. She settled on the comfortable wooden chair near the window, ran her hands over the smooth arms, and sighed. She’d done it. Lady Beatrice Westby, former society beauty, had commandeered a ship.

  “I’m in the room, Braithwaite,” Longe said. “You can wait to do your gloating until I’m on shore.”

  She snorted. “You’re halfway out the door as it is. Let me have this moment.”

  “Females. You’re all the same. You can’t help crowing over a victory, whether you’re in the drawing room or in the captain’s room.”

  “What did you say?” Tightness coiled in her stomach, and she stood, her muscles tensed and ready to attack if provoked.

  “I know you’re female, Braithwaite,” he said.

  She clenched her fists as her heart beat a rapid staccato in her ears. Lord, I’ll have to kill him. Killing had been part of her training, and though she had not done so since her husband, she was prepared. Or at least I hope I am. Longe was a grumpy, scowling bastard, but she’d come to like him in their short acquaintance. Desp
ite her best efforts, she blanched.

  “Don’t get all fidgety on me now,” he said, waving his hands to have her resume her seat. “I’ve known for a while. I’ll not share your secret as a result of my departure.”

  “How?” she asked, and slumped in her chair.

  “Your scent. The day you tracked me to my cottage, you wrapped your legs around my neck. Over the sweat, dirt and horse, I smelled your feminine heat. It’s unmistakable.”

  “Since then? Does anyone else—?”

  He shook his head. Most of the crew find you a bit puny, but all agree you’re fierce and not to be crossed. You’ll not have any problems commanding them once I’m gone.”

  “Why?” she asked, and hoped he understood what she was asking.

  “I’m not saying I haven’t liked my life, but smuggling to the French has never set well with me. I had convinced myself it didn’t matter because I couldn’t see who was being hurt by my actions. Talking about my brother with you, hearing about his deceased wife and his children reminded me who I was. It became more and more difficult to reveal your identify the longer we remained in company.”

  “Thank you. Will you return home?”

  “I might, to say goodbye before I leave for the Americas.”

  “Your brother wants to see you,” she said. “I know it would mean a lot to him.”

  “And your family? Do they know what risks you take?”

  “No, and it’s best if they don’t. My younger sister has recently eloped. She and her husband live not far from here. Though I miss her, it’s best to remain in the shadows.”

  “What a lonely life.”

  “It’s a path of my choosing. I have no regrets.”

  “After a lifetime of shadow, I have many and wish to fix some of them, if you’re ready to take me to shore.”

  “Yes. If we leave now, I can be back before my employer returns.” The two left the room and walked mid-ship toward the shore dinghy hanging from the side. They lowered the dinghy into the water and clambered down a rope ladder to board.