Snifter of Death

by Chris Karlsen

  The traps were set—not to attract animal life but human. He’d gone inland to Launceston to hire extra guards, the precaution of distance a necessary evil. In all likelihood, the violators lived in one of the nearby villages, which eliminated using men from the area as possible sentries.

  “Just let me sit and enjoy some peace and quiet.”

  “You’re cross. Maybe you should eat.” Her winged brows dipped into a furrow of false concern.

  “No.” Too tired to eat when he returned, he’d waved away the tray of food the maid brought to his private chamber. But Isabeau had no way of knowing he refused dinner since he always ate alone and she never disturbed him. Everyone in the household knew he hated sharing a meal or a table with others present unless a social situation forced him. The sounds people made when they ate disgusted him. Nor did he find idle conversation over food particularly engaging. No witty discussion could compensate for the smacking, slurping, swallowing noises. These offenses were compounded by the glimpses of half-devoured food of folks who felt the urge to speak while eating.

  “I’m not hungry. I’m weary. Were you the least bit observant you’d have noticed?” William ignored the sour face she made and laid his head back against the cushions of the chair and closed his eyes. He sat still as stone, holding the wineglass by the globe, not sleeping but resting his eyes.

  Close to dozing off, he spread his legs farther apart, so his feet were flat on the floor. The only sound came from the occasional pop of wood in the fire as it burned. The heat from Isabeau’s body and the silk of her gown as it brushed his knuckles gave her away as she knelt in front of him. She removed his riding boots and began unbuttoning his shirt. He opened his eyes to watch.

  She peered up through thick lashes, her unlined complexion glowed and her moist lips glistened. The face of a penitent and the morals of a peahen. A pleasurable combination most nights. She’d deliberately worn the ribbons loose and her gown had slipped from her shoulders. The soft garment split apart below her navel, exposing creamy pink and white flesh. Those thighs, shorter and plumper than an Englishwoman’s, produced surprising strength when it mattered, aiding him in burying himself deeper within her.

  “I love you,” Isabeau said and stretched forward so the tips of her breasts skimmed his wool trousers and the nipples pearled.

  “Don’t be silly. You love my pounds, shillings, and pence, well, not the pence so much,” he clarified with a light chuckle. “You love the jewelry I give you.” William picked her hand up and fingered the cameo ring he’d bought her for Christmas. “And, you love the fine clothes, and the sex, but you don’t love me.”

  She pushed off his legs and stood with remarkable speed. With a long sigh, he straightened, ready for the torrent of indignation she’d no doubt hurl at him.

  The moue returned, only more pronounced. “How dare you tell me who or what I love. Why must you be so cruel?” Isabeau stomped a barefoot while one fat tear escaped down her cheek. “You break my heart,” she added with a dramatic lip quiver. “Why don’t we marry? I could be a good wife, a good mother. You could learn to love me. I already know many ways to please you.”

  “I can learn to play a bagpipe too. That’s not going happen either.” A lifetime with the temperamental, possessive Isabeau— the thought almost gagged him. William raised a hand palm up in hopes to stay her emotional declarations. “Don’t.”

  “Make love to me. Let me show you how devoted I am.”

  “Isabeau. I want a hot bath and sleep, in that order.”

  “Make love to me. I will make you forget your weariness.” The gown puddled at her feet as she slid it off. Naked except for stockings and satin slippers, she touched herself, teasing her skin with fluttery strokes. William’s cock involuntarily twitched and jumped a little at the tempting sight. Carnal creature.

  “No, you won’t. You’ll want to play games, like you always do,” he said low, confident she wouldn’t deny the accusation.

  She propped a foot up on the arm of his chair, tilted her head and fingered the nest of dark curls between her legs. William sipped the claret and followed the path of her fingers with his eyes. He finished the wine and set the goblet onto the leather top of a side table.

  “You like games.” Isabeau pointedly shot a glance at the tented front of his trousers. “You especially like me on all fours, tied, restrained and at your mercy, oui cher?”

  His body warred against him. Part of him wanted nothing more than to lie quiet, but part, wasn’t quite as spent as the rest. It had sprung back to life with the minx’s teasing and now throbbed for relief.

  “True, I like a variety of things. However, were I to forget my tired bones, I’d like to do something completely different this evening.” He paused. Isabeau tipped her head, a quizzical expression on her face. William anticipated her curiosity. “Tonight, I’d like to fuck like every other bloody Englishman, with you on your back and me on top groaning and pumping away for a minute or so, then a nice sleep.”

  A sneer touched the edge of her mouth, then Isabeau laughed. “You English, you are so uninspired, a pity for your women. My soul cries for them.”

  “Yes, unimaginative lot that we are, we have somehow managed to colonize much of the world.”

  She took his hand and led him to her chamber. He didn’t object. Upstairs Isabeau unbuttoned his trousers and pushed them down. William stripped out of the legs and held still while she undressed him the rest of the way.

  She dropped to her knees and eased the sides of his underwear down to his ankles. He stared at her bent head and wondered how hair that looked so inky in the daylight could reflect so much gold and red in the light of the gas lamps. He leaned forward as she wrapped her warm hand around his cock and toyed with the tip. She wet the end with her tongue then blew on it with her warm breath.

  Threading his fingers into her hair, he pushed himself between her parted lips and moaned when she sucked him in further.

  When he could take no more, he pulled her up and kissed her. The hard edge of her teeth pressed along the seam of his mouth, painful, almost cutting. She fell backward onto the bed, holding onto his arms and dragged him down on top of her.

  She’d done what she said: made him forget his exhaustion. About to explode, William entered her, thrusting, stroking. Isabeau with her incredible sense of drama, jerked her head to the side and scooted away like a crab toward the pillows, dislodging him. “You know what I want.”

  He panted above her, his arms bracketed her hips. “Yes, I know what you’d like. I told you before we started I had no interest in playing games tonight. I’m tired. Let’s be done with this.” How dare she do this now, he swore to himself. If he were a different kind of man, a less refined man, he’d force her, roughly if necessary. He’d teach her how unsound it was to ignite a man’s baser desires then deny him satisfaction. After tonight, he’d find another lover and send her back to London or Paris, the sooner, the better. “Finish!”

  She grabbed a favorite red silk scarf from the stand by the bed and held it out to him. “Do this for me and we shall both finish gloriously.” She gave the scarf an impatient shake.

  William debated whether to give in to her demand or simply finish himself off. A refusal allowed him to retain the power between them, but he lost much sexual gratification, to give in he relinquished his authority to the rapacious witch.

  He suppressed his resentment and snatched the scarf from her hand and sat back on his heels. She lifted her head so he could wind the silk ligature around her small neck. William had to loop it twice to get it snug enough. He gave each end a tug to check the tightness, the amount of play. Isabeau raised her arms above her head, like a slave girl tethered to a pole. She closed her eyes and sighed. Her sooty eyelashes fluttered against her cheek.

  He studied the nimble beauty. Would his next mistress be a willing partner of the rarer sexual arts? Isabeau showed him things he’d only heard discussed by some of the men at his club. Strange things, erotic and differ
ent, they spoke of rough and tumble love play usually performed by expensive whores. He had several mistresses over the years and numerous liaisons in between. None of his paramours came close to Isabeau in imagination. It’s the one thing he’d miss.

  She whimpered, and the sound brought him back to the moment. One of her kneecaps prodded his buttocks as she spread her legs. The scent of her readiness inflamed his desire. He trailed his fingers across her belly and she shivered at the touch, tiny goose bumps rose along her pale skin. She grabbed his wrist and laid his hand on one end of the scarf. “Do it.”

  He wrapped an end in each hand and pulled. His fingers crept up the silk and he tugged a bit harder still. The material pressed deeper into the flesh of her neck. Bright pink dotted her cheeks and radiated down to her jaw. The veins in her temples popped out and pulsed in time to her heartbeat. She moaned, pushed her hips upward and writhed against him. Her soft pubic hair tickled his testicles. Isabeau’s unsubtle way of letting him know she wanted him inside her. He obliged.

  Her hands encircled his wrists. She tugged hard outward, harder than usual. A choked sigh escaped her. He paid no attention. This was standard. Isabeau always insisted he maintain pressure until she signaled for him to release his hold. In the past, when she reached the edge of consciousness, she’d beat along his upper arms. This time she thrashed her head back and forth, something he hadn’t seen before. Her eyes bulged in an unattractive way and she clawed at him. Her nails gouged the skin on his hands, drawing blood.

  She hurt him and he wanted to slap her. He almost let go of one end of the scarf to do that. Instead, he pulled tighter. Isabeau tried to insert her fingers into the spot where the material crossed over. Her mouth opened and shut, soundless and fishlike. She swatted at the mattress wildly. Red-faced to the point of being near purple, she bucked beneath him.

  She fired his blood with her lack of inhibition. Never had she responded with such intensity. Raw power surged through him, primitive, animalistic. He pumped hard. Ready to climax, William clenched his fists, twisting the scarf one last turn. Odd, feathery touches tapped his biceps, feminine and subtle grazes, and then she went limp. Spent, he released his hold and collapsed on top of her, his heart pounding while he caught his breath.

  Isabeau didn’t move and her head stayed turned to the side. She hadn’t cried out the way she normally did when sated. Perhaps she was disappointed with his effort. He gave the thought a mental shrug. At the end of the day, it really didn’t matter. He’d arrange for her departure first thing in the morning.

  William rolled over and slung a sweaty arm over his eyes. He tried to decide which was worse, telling her tonight the affair was over or waiting until morning. The idea of doing it after such a rambunctious sexual endeavor seemed bad form, but he wanted to get it over with. He turned onto his side, prepared for histrionics, caterwauling, great tears and verbal abuse.

  “Isabeau, look at me. I’ve come to a decision and it will likely distress you.” Nothing. She didn’t stir. “Isabeau?”

  He shook her by the arm. Still no response. William let go and her arm dropped listless to the mattress. He raised her arm again and let go. Again, it fell listless. He straddled her and patted her cheeks. Nothing. Her head twisted without resistance first right then left depending on the direction of his pat. He slapped her harder. Nothing. Vacant eyes stared fixed on the ceiling. He bent an ear to her chest. Nothing. William leapt from the bed, snatched a silver mirror from the dressing table, and held it under her nose. Nothing.

  “Bitch.” William hurled the mirror against the wall. “Bitch, whore,” he raged and paced along the side of the bed. “I will not allow you to make my life a nightmare.”

  ****

  “This was your doing. I told you to leave me alone.” William stood with his hands on his hips and took one last look at the broken female form. He braced his legs wide apart, tipped his head back and drew in several deep breaths of salt air. He loved living near the sea. The dawn held the beginnings of a fine spring day. Too bad he’d spend it and the next several cooped up at his estate, mourning the death of a woman he didn’t love. The expectations of polite society grated on the nerves at times like this.

  In the east, a sliver of sun appeared. The hour to raise a hue and cry for help had come. He’d stretched his visit to the beach out as long as he dared. Now, he’d ride hell bent into the village demanding help in rescuing his beloved Isabeau.

  The clatter of the two horses galloping echoed off the cobblestones village street so it sounded like four. Candles were lit in the hamlet’s windows, men and women not already at work came outside to see the cause of the commotion.

  “Quick, you must come. There’s been a terrible accident.” William dropped Guinevere’s lead rope and reined in King Arthur hard. The stallion’s rear hooves slid on the mist covered stones. William turned him in a circle until the horse found purchase on the edge of a cobble and stopped slipping.

  “Please, my lady’s mare spooked and thrown her. She’s fallen off Trebarwith Strand. I fear she’s seriously injured.” He directed his plea to several men standing at their gates.

  Curious children peered around their mother’s skirts at him while men grabbed lanterns and rope. Some of the men ran behind King Arthur on foot, a few had work horses handy and rode. One or two others ran to small boats and would row, paralleling the crowd to the spot where the lady fell. Often victims of cliff side falls had to be relocated by water, when carrying the injured person up the rocks was too dangerous. The women who didn’t have infants to feed followed in groups, chattering, eager to witness the excitement.

  ****

  William pressed firm fists into his lower back and arched. The stretch eased the weariness that settled down his spine from the arduous retrieval of Isabeau’s body. He briefly considered taking a few minutes to write in his journal but couldn’t find the energy. Exhaustion consumed him. The previous day’s work on the estate, and the events of the night had taken its toll on his system. While her body lay in the parlor where in the morning it would be dressed one last time, and before collapsing onto bed, he visited Isabeau’s chamber one more time. There, on the pillow he’d so often fell asleep on, lay the silk scarf, where he’d tossed it. He picked it up with the intent of burning it in the privacy of his chamber. The silk slid over his palms, through his fingers as he wove it between them. Whisper soft yet deadly, an unusual combination. The thought amused him and he stuck the scarf into his pocket. Rather than destroy the delicate weapon, he’d store it in his bureau as a token of the night, a reminder of the lovely but foolish Isabeau.

  He’d ordered the maid to clean the chamber and pack everything. The maid and his valet, Burton, who met him as he left the room, did their best to console him in this dark hour. William thanked them for their efforts. Fully clothed, he lay down and closed his eyes, grateful for such a caring staff.

  May 15, 1888

  She let it go too long. A ladylike fist banging on my upper arm, our usual signal would have sufficed. Instead, she heated my blood with her wildcat gyrations. The writhing, the intimate press of her swollen folds against me. Inspirational. There’d been no cry, no complaint, only a breathy gasp, that sensual moan. The struggle. The force of her fight. The glassy sheen to her eyes, the way they widened, more and more. Ecstasy. I’ve never been so hard. I’d have stopped had I known, then again, perhaps not. A moot point. She’s dead. An accident, but still...

  Journal entry of William Everhard

  Research information for the writing of Silk can be found on my website:

  http://chriskarlsen.com/

  About the Author

  Chris Karlsen

  Chris Karlsen is a retired police detective. She spent twenty-five years in law enforcement with two different agencies. The daughter of a history professor and a voracious reader, she grew up with a love of his and books. An internationally published author, Chris has traveled extensively throughout Europe, the Near East, and North Africa satisfying h
er need to visit the places she read about. Having spent a great deal of time in England and Turkey, she has used her love of both places as settings for her books. “Heroes Live Forever,” which is her debut book, is set in England as is the sequel, “Journey in Time.” Both are part of her “Knights in Time,” series. Her third book, to be released in late 2011, “Golden Chariot,” is set in Turkey and she is currently working on another set in Turkey, Paris and Cyprus. Published by Books to Go Now, her novels are available in ebook. “Heroes Live Forever,” is available in paperback and “Journey in Time,” will be made available in paperback in October, 2011 on her publisher’s site. A Chicago native, Chris has lived in Paris and Los Angeles and now resides in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and four rescue dogs. A city girl all her life, living in a small village on a bay was an interesting adjustment. She’d never lived anywhere so quiet at night and traffic wasn’t bumper to bumper 24/7. Some of Chris’s favorite authors are: Michael Connolly, John Sandford, Joseph Wambaugh, Stephen Coonts, Bernard Cornwell, Julia Quinn, Julie Anne Long, Deanna Raybourne and Steve Berry.

  Knights in Time

  Heroes Live Forever, Journey in Time, and Knight Blindness are three romances that take the reader into a world filled with heart-warming heroes and heroines. Theirs are stories where heartbreak and danger is faced with courage. They’re stories of how love is stronger than any challenge. Each mixes history and the modern world where the settings are brought vividly to life.

  Books to Go Now

  You can find more stories such as this at www.bookstogonow.com

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