The Art of Persuasion: Book 4 of The Swashbuckling Romance Series

by Myers, Heather C.

  Now, however, I realize the whole thing was based on a lie. Our entire relationship, the fact that she went out of her way to talk to me, it was a lie. And I think that, more than anything else, hurts the most.

  "On whether you choose to stay or not," she finally says. "That's why I'm here, Isla. That's what I've been trying to tell you. It's not your fault you were born in the wrong time. But there's a requirement that you spend some time here to be able to make a well-informed decision. Yeah, the millennium has technology and jeans and women's rights. But that doesn't mean the eighteenth century is all bad. Remember, you were supposed to be born here. You'll fit in easier, be better at adapting than others who were specifically schedule for birth later. Give this place a chance."

  "I don't really have much of a choice, do I?" I ask.

  Becky gives me an admonishing look regarding my sarcasm. She's never been a fan but would put up with it because she likes - liked? - being around me. "There's always a choice, Isla," she says. "I'll come back for you in three weeks. You can make your choice then. If you decide to return home, you'll wake up from a coma with no memory of this place except as a dream. If you decide to stay here, you'll die back home as a result from your injuries. The choice is yours." She pauses so her words have a chance to sink in. Then, she tilts her head in the direction of Sarah's brothel. "Come on. Let's get back."

  I follow her without saying anything. I'm too caught up to figure out the best response for everything she just told me.

  Chapter 10

  When Becky leaves me in front of Sarah’s brothel, ONE, my chest feels heavy and it’s hard for me to breathe. Life as I know it is shattered, and my past – the very building blocks that have made me who I am, who I thought I was – is a lie. I’m a ship without an anchor, trying to keep steady in choppy waters during a lightning storm. I see no help in sight; even the horizon holds no hope for me because everything is black.

  I don’t belong here, and yet, from what Becky tells me, I don’t belong back home, either. I have no foundation, nowhere I can go to feel home. I have no home.

  I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t know what’s right, what’s wrong, what’s possible, what’s not. I don’t know anything anymore.

  I feel my eyes fill with tears, and for the first time since arriving in the eighteenth century, I’m crying. And not in the cute, girly way where girls are still pretty with tears rolling down their cheeks one by one. Where girls still have their dignity. No. I’m ugly-sobbing, with snot running down my nose and my eyes gushing out tears nonstop, and sounds coming out of my mouth and nose that I’ve never heard before but definitely don’t sound dainty or attractive. I know I should probably go inside because I’m out in public in the middle of the day standing and bawling, and I’m pretty sure some passersby have given me odd looks, whisper to their children, and hurry along to avoid catching my attention, but for some reason, I’m rooted in place. I can’t move.

  “Good God!” a voice exclaims from behind me, and there’s Sarah, giving me a look of disgust. “You know blubbering women make for bad business, even if they are pretty, don’t you?” She takes me by the shoulders and steers me inside. Though she’s not rough, she’s firm, and we don’t stop until we’ve walked up the winding staircase and down the hall to her room – a room off-limits to anyone she doesn’t personally invite herself.

  We stop at her bed and she pushes me down into a sitting position. I keep my head tilted down so my hair is in my face and she can’t see the monstrosity that has become my face. My hands are shoved in my lap, clutching the skirts between my fingers because the material gives me something to hold onto.

  Sarah doesn’t pat my back or tell me it’s okay. She doesn’t talk to me and she definitely doesn’t touch to me. She lets me cry in my own way and I do. I take full advantage of the fact that now, I’m almost by myself, and I can pour all of myself into this cry. It feels good – as much as the burning jagged pain fills my chest – to release it. To be able to let it all out. I don’t even care that Sarah’s watching me. I need to get this out of me.

  When I manage to get myself together, she offers me a damp washcloth. “You look like you could use a bath,” she tells me. “I’ll have my servants draw you a bath.”

  “That’s really not” –

  “I insist.” Sarah looks like she’s being kind but she has the kind of eyes you don’t argue with. “When I’m feeling particularly emotional, a bath soothes me. Calms me down.”

  She leaves me by myself for a bit and I look around, taking in everything from the elaborate painting on the wall, to the apricot-colored wallpaper that causes the room to glow. This is Sarah’s office; it has a dark oak desk that looks too fancy for a place like a brothel but somehow, it fits. There are writing utensils and ink, as well as parchment – paper – spewed across the desk. The ceiling is high and it would be the perfect place for a chandelier. Instead, there’s a painting placed horizontally, so if Sarah ever needs a break, she can lie on her bed and stare up at it. It’s a simple painting, really; just of the sunset, but the colors are bright and bold, and it’s hard to look away from. There’s a window that faces the town of Port Royal, but because her office is on the third story, it’s not like anyone can really see her here anyway. It’s not a bad place to work, to be honest.

  At that moment, Sarah comes back and closes the door behind her. “They’re boiling the water now,” she says, heading over to another door. “They’ll bring it up in a bit. For now, I can help you undress in here.”

  She leads me through a second door, into a smaller room with a porcelain white bathtub as long as I am. There’s a small white desk filled with lotions, soaps, and shampoos. I have no idea what is what but Sarah can help me figure it out, and it all smells so good, I really don’t care. I don’t think I’ve bathed since I got here – and it’s been practically a week – which means I probably smell worse than a hog rolling in mud.

  As I take in the room, Sarah starts undoing my corset. I’m not sure how I feel about strangers dressing and undressing me, and I make a note of finding someone to teach me how to lace and tie my corset myself, so I don’t have to ask someone to help me.

  “Considering you’re a woman and not from these parts,” Sarah says as she yanks the ribbon, “do you have any questions for me? Questions you might otherwise be uncomfortable asking Matt? Perhaps about the way to dress or the way to wash? What to do if you get your monthlies? Ways to please a man” –

  “I know how to please a man,” I say, though I’m not sure why. “I don’t think it’s changed much through the centuries.”

  Sarah makes a noise I can’t distinguish if it’s approval or not.

  "It seems Matt is right about you," she says. "You aren't like any other woman I've met before. Save for myself, of course. Between the two of us, I learned how to please a man before I married. Before I ever met Henry, truth be told. My mother taught me. Was a whore in this very brothel. Had me work here to earn my keep when I was twelve."

  "Like serving food and washing dishes?" I ask. I have no idea why I feel compelled to ask for clarification when deep down, I already know the answer. God, I must sound like an idiot.

  Sarah's eyes cut through me and she doesn't answer. She doesn't have to. Her eyes go back to her window and she looks lost as she stares at the sight before her.

  "I made lots of money, surprisingly enough," she says. "I was pretty and young and didn't have many reservations. How could I, with a mother like mine? Matt was too young to understand so he stayed home or Pa would take him to work at the docks. He was a ship inspector. His job was to ensure each ship passed inspection, each ship was safe and could sail with a certain amount of men and supplies. That sort of thing." She shifted her eyes back over to me and I feel myself straighten under her stare, like a schoolchild. "You see, my father was honest to a fault. And, at the time, everyone was bribing inspectors to seek their ship safe under bad conditions because it would cost more to invest in the upgrade
than a flat bribe would. My father never accepted a bribe and that ended up killing him. My mom, bitter at my father, sold herself because that made money fast. She never wanted to work but she was too poor and not pretty enough to transcend her position from her caste. My father became bitter at the fact that she would sell herself. He didn't know about me or he would have killed her himself. But we made enough money to get by. I got good at my job. Really good. And soon, I made more money than any other whore in the place. This was after my mother died, though. If she knew I was out-earning her, she'd find some way to sabotage me, the bitch. It wasn't long before I raised through the rankings until I saved enough to buy the brothel myself."

  I can tell she's talking to herself now, and I wonder if she's ever shared this with anyone before. If Matt knows how she came to own the brothel. If her husband even knows. It makes me wonder why she's sharing it with me in the first place.

  "Now, I'm a proper business woman with money in my pocket and control over this town." Her eyes slice to mine and it's like she remembers I'm here. "I have a husband and we want to start a family. I wouldn't be here, where I am, without fucking my way to the top. I learned how to play the game to get what I want. It's degrading and completely humiliating, but learning how to please a man got me exactly where I wanted to go, without them even realizing it." She clenched her jaw. "The reason I'm sharing this with you is because my brother is different around you. I've never seen him like this so I can't predict his behavior. I need to know your intentions with him and I need you to be honest with me."

  To put it plainly, Sarah scares the shit out of me. So much so I don't know what to say. But she's looking at me with her pointed stare and I feel myself squirm under its weight.

  "I like Matt," I tell her, deciding my best option is to be honest with her. If she spills my secrets, so be it, but I figure she won't. Not after what she told me. I can use that against her if I need to. "I don't know how much and I don't know how he feels in return. It doesn't matter. I'm fine being where we are now. I'm fine being friends or whatever this is between us. There's too much going on in my head right now to commit to anyone and I don't even know if I'm capable of doing so. But I want to, with your brother. Don't ask me why because I sure as shit don't know, but I know that I want to. But I don't know how he feels and I'm somewhat familiar with his reputation, people have told me about him. I know he has a few regulars here. Whatever. I don't judge. Not my business. I just." I stop, catch my breath. "I just don't know anything anymore."

  Sarah does not feel sorry for me. I don't think she will. She's not the type to tolerate self-labeled victims and even though it's not my intention to come across that way, there's a very good chance that may be happening. I press my lips together, waiting. For what, I don't know, but Sarah makes me feel like a deer caught in headlights and instead if running or fighting, I'm frozen.

  "You have a strange accent," she finally says and I'm not sure if I'm relieved or not about the turn of the conversation. "Where are you from?"

  I almost laugh. Instead, I shrug my shoulders. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," I say.

  Sarah narrows her eyes, curious. Intrigued. "Try me," she says.

  So I do. I tell her everything about me. I know Matt told her something because she wouldn't have taken me to Becky in the first place but she must not know the details so I make sure I don't skimp on anything. At this point, I don't care if she thinks I'm crazy or delusional. I don't care if she wants to commit me to an insane asylum. I've just had it with everyone and everything and I need to tell someone else just to prove that my old life is still real. It may not be my current reality and it may not ever be a reality for me again but it's still real to me. And that matters. That means something.

  By the time I finish, the bath is ready for me. I'm more than ready for the bath. Sarah still hasn't said a word to me but she helps undo the buttons on the back of my dress and I lace my corset. I feel light and relieved, getting that burden off of my shoulders because I tell Sarah about Becky too, and my family and friends and job and my education. I tell her everything, including my feelings and it's just so nice to get them out that I'm more than ready for my bath and don't plan to get out of the water for a long while.

  "How do you know Becky?" I ask when I'm finished. I haven't given Sarah much of a chance to speak and I want to pick her brain while she gives me the opportunity to do so.

  Sarah shrugs and she offers me her hands to use as balance while I step out of the skirts. "Some of my girls swear by her," she says. "I'm not sure if I'm a believer but the woman is odd, I'll tell you that." She gives me a sideways glance and helps me step into the tub. I grin because I've never been in a tub as big as this one and I'm excited to test it out. "So you're supposed to be born here, then?"

  I shrug, sinking into the water. It's the perfect temperature where it pinches your skin pink but doesn't overwhelm you with heat.

  "That's what she says," I say. "It's ridiculous, isn't it?"

  "I've heard of dafter things," she says and I believe her. She juts her hip and narrows her eyes and suddenly she's tense as she stares at me. "Listen, lass, I want to make something very clear. My brother is the most important person in the world second only to my husband. If I find out that you're using him or that there's any funny business, I don't care where you're from, I'll break your neck myself. I have no idea who you are but I appreciate your assistance in my rescue and you seem like you have a good head on your shoulders. But understand that I have no idea who you are and my brother isn't acting like his typical self around you. I'm not sure what's going on between the two of you and as much as I want to know, I understand that it's not really my business. But don't lead him on. Matt is good at hiding what he's feeling. I can't bloody tell if he's ever been hurt before because of a woman because he internalizes everything and it drives me absolutely crazy. As I was saying, don't lead him on. Because I think there's a good chance that you have the power to do more damage to him than you realize and I want it known to you just what the consequences would be should you hurt him in that way." She pauses so she can catch her breath and I blink because it's a lot to take in and I'm not sure how to handle it, how to react to it. Her eyes find mine and they're sharp and to the point. "Are we clear?"

  I nod my head. I want to look away from the intensity that is her stare but I find I'm unable to. "Crystal," I force myself to say.

  She nods as though this is sufficient and leaves me alone to my bath. I roll my shoulders back and try to get comfortable. I intend for this to be a long bath. And more than that, I want to forget all my problems and pretend, for the moment, that this is just a dream.. After that, I need as much relaxation time as I can get.

  Chapter 11

  I sleep well in my room at Sarah’s brothel. My room is on the smaller size, a similar size to my apartment back home. It has sweeping curtains and high ceilings, a vanity mirror and what I would have thought was an antique desk if I found it at a Good Will back home. But here, it’s current and modern. It’s ivory and smooth, the material reminding me of marble but I know it’s not. The floor is wood with brightly colored rugs covering the wood so when I wake up and put my sockless feet on the floor, I’m not shocked out of slumber due to the cold. I have one window in my room that overlooks the town center and I pad over to it so I can open both the curtains and the window. A bitter cold air hits me like a slap in the face and I actually take a step back. I can hear the groaning of the carriages, the snorts of the horses. The air has a slight hint of salt and water, and if I close my eyes, I can hear the bells and the ocean hitting the docks.

  Port Royal is waking up slowly. It’s not a bad way to wake up, if I’m being honest. There’s no sound of a nearby freeway, no cars, no sirens. No fighting from my next door neighbors who really need to separate, if not for me than for themselves. It’s peaceful here. It’s nice.

  When I think of home, when I make these comparisons without trying, I find that there’s no real longing fil
ling up my thought process. I don’t miss home as much as I thought I would. But here’s the thing. I’ve been here for about a week. I’m not sure if this lack of feeling stems from being in a new place with new people and once I get used to this, I’ll go back to missing where I’m from, or if it’s because I genuinely don’t miss home. I haven’t thought about driving my car or going to work. I haven’t thought about my TV shows. I miss music. Man, I miss music. And my phone. And podcasts. But not terribly. Not the way I would miss Matt.

  Because I would. Miss Matt. It’s not exactly something I like admitting just because I am so not this person but, at least, to myself, I can. I would miss him. Because I like him. I like him a lot. I like the sound he makes when he breathes and the way his eyes sparkle when he’s talking about something he’s passionate for. I’ve never been with a guy who has this kind of passion. It’s something I didn’t realize I was attracted to. Until now.

  Matt is not the sort to settle down. I can gather as much. Sarah pretty much told me as much. But I swear, sometimes, when I catch him looking at me, there’s something more…