by JB Lynn
She huffed. “And a sharp tongue to match.”
“Mon Dieu, a very saucy mouth, indeed.” He smiled, displaying straight, white teeth.
A perfectly bright smile, Virginia thought. What a pity his mental faculties were so dim in comparison. But she refrained from responding with an insulting remark. No good could come from stooping to his level of ill manners. She stepped back, intending to leave, but hesitated when he spoke again.
“I do so like your nose. Very becoming and—” He opened his silver box, removed a pinch of snuff with his gloved fingers and sniffed.
She waited for him to finish the sentence. He was a buffoon, to be sure, but she couldn’t help but wonder—did he actually like her nose? Over the years, she had endured a great deal of teasing because of the way it turned up on the end.
He snapped his snuffbox shut with a click. “Ah, yes, where was I, becoming and . . . disdainfully haughty. Yes, that’s it.”
Heat pulsed to her face once more. “I daresay it is not surprising for you to admire something disdainfully haughty, but regardless of your opinion, it is improper for you to address me so rudely. For that matter, it is highly improper for you to speak to me at all, for need I remind you, sir, we have not been introduced.”
He dropped his snuffbox back into his pocket. “Definitely disdainful. And haughty.” His mouth curled up, revealing two dimples beneath the rouge on his cheeks.
She glared at the offensive fop. Somehow, she would give him the cut he deserved.
A short man in a brown buckram coat and breeches scurried toward them. “Mr. Stanton! The criminals for sale are over there, sir, near the forecastle. You see the ones in chains?”
Raising his quizzing glass, the lavender dandy pivoted on his high heels and perused the line of shackled prisoners. He shrugged his silk-clad shoulders and glanced back at Virginia with a look of feigned horror. “Oh, dear, what a delightful little faux pas. I suppose you’re not for sale after all?”
“No, of course not.”
“I do beg your pardon.” He flipped a lacy, monogrammed handkerchief out of his chest pocket and made a poor attempt to conceal the wide grin on his face.
A heavy, flowery scent emanated from his handkerchief, nearly bowling her over. He was probably one of those people who never bathed, just poured on more perfume. She covered her mouth with a gloved hand and gently coughed.
“Well, no harm done.” He waved his handkerchief in the air. “C’est la vie and all that. Would you care for some snuff? ’Tis my own special blend from London, don’t you know. We call it Grey Mouton.”
“Gray sheep?”
“Why, yes. Sink me! You parlez français? How utterly charming for one of your class.”
Narrowing her eyes, she considered strangling him with the drawstrings of her purse.
He removed the silver engraved box from his pocket and flicked it open. “A pinch, in the interest of peace?” His mouth twitched with amusement.
“No, thank you.”
He lifted a pinch to his nose and sniffed. “What did I tell you, Johnson?” he asked the short man in brown buckram at his side. “These Colonials are a stubborn lot, far too eager to take offense”—he sneezed delicately into his lacy handkerchief—“and far too unappreciative of the efforts the mother country makes on their behalf.” He slid his closed snuffbox back into his pocket.
Virginia planted her hands on her hips. “You speak, perhaps, of Britain’s kindness in providing us with a steady stream of slaves?”
“Slaves?”
She gestured toward the raised platform of the forecastle, where Britain’s latest human offering stood in front, chained at the ankles and waiting to be sold.
“Oh.” He waved his scented handkerchief in dismissal. “You mean the indentured servants. They’re not slaves, my dear, only criminals paying their dues to society. ’Tis the mother country’s fervent hope they will be reformed by their experience in America.”
“I see. Perhaps we should send the mother country a boatload of American wolves to see if they can be reformed by their experience in Britain?”
His chuckle was surprisingly deep. “Touché.”
The deep timbre of his voice reverberated through her skin, striking a chord that hummed from her chest down to her belly. She caught her breath and looked at him more closely. When his eyes met hers, his smile faded away. Time seemed to hold still for a moment as he held her gaze, quietly studying her.
The man in brown cleared his throat.
Virginia blinked and looked away. She breathed deeply to calm her racing heart. Once more, she became aware of the murmur of voices and the screech of sea gulls overhead. What had happened? It must have been the thrill of putting the man in his place that had affected her. Strange, though, that he had happily acknowledged her small victory.
Mr. Stanton gave the man in brown a mildly irritated look, then smiled at her once more. “American wolves, you say? Really, my dear, these people’s crimes are too petty to compare them to murderous beasts. Why, Johnson, here, was an indentured servant before becoming my secretary. Were you not, Johnson?”
“Aye, Mr. Stanton,” the older man answered. “But I came voluntarily. Not all these people are prisoners. The group to the right doesn’t wear chains. They’re selling themselves out of desperation.”
“There, you see.” The dandy spread his gloved hands, palms up, in a gesture of conciliation. “No hard feelings. In fact, I quite trust Johnson here with all my affairs in spite of his criminal background. You know the Colonials are quite wrong in thinking we British are a cold, callous lot.”
Virginia gave Mr. Johnson a small, sympathetic smile, letting him know she understood his indenture had not been due to a criminal past. Her own father, faced with starvation and British cruelty, had left his beloved Scottish Highlands as an indentured servant. Her sympathy seemed unnecessary, however, for Mr. Johnson appeared unperturbed by his employer’s rudeness. No doubt the poor man had grown accustomed to it.
She gave Mr. Stanton her stoniest of looks. “Thank you for enlightening me.”
“My pleasure, dear gel. Now I must take my leave.” Without further ado, he ambled toward the group of gaunt, shackled humans, his high-heeled shoes clunking on the ship’s wooden deck and his short secretary tagging along behind.
Virginia scowled at his back. The British needed to go home, and the sooner, the better.
“I say, old man.” She heard his voice filter back as he addressed his servant. “I do wish the pretty wench were for sale. A bit too saucy, perhaps, but I do so like a challenge. Quel dommage, a real pity, don’t you know.”
A vision of herself tackling the dandy and stuffing his lavender-tinted wig down his throat brought a smile to her lips. She could do it. Sometimes she pinned down her brother when he tormented her. Of course, such behavior might be frowned upon in Boston. This was not the hilly region of North Carolina that the Munro family called home.
And the dandy might prove difficult to knock down. Watching him from the back, she realized how large he was. She grimaced at the lavender bows on his high-heeled pumps. Why would a man that tall need to wear heels? Another pair of lavender bows served as garters, tied over the tabs of his silk knee breeches. His silken hose were too sheer to hide padding, so those calves were truly that muscular. How odd.
He didn’t mince his steps like one would expect from a fopdoodle, but covered the deck with long, powerful strides, the walk of a man confident in his strength and masculinity.
She found herself examining every inch of him, calculating the amount of hard muscle hidden beneath the silken exterior. What color was his hair under that hideous tinted wig? Probably black, like his eyebrows. His eyes had gleamed like polished pewter, pale against his tanned face.
Her breath caught in her throat. A tanned face? A fop would not spend the necessary hours toiling in the sun that resulted in a bronzed complexion.
This Mr. Stanton was a puzzle.
She shook her h
ead, determined to forget the perplexing man. Yet, if he dressed more like the men back home—tight buckskin breeches, boots, no wig, no lace . . .
The sun bore down with increasing heat, and she pulled her hand-painted fan from her purse and flicked it open. She breathed deeply as she fanned herself. Her face tingled with a mist of salty air and the lingering scent of Mr. Stanton’s handkerchief.
She watched with growing suspicion as the man in question postured in front of the women prisoners with his quizzing glass, assessing them with a practiced eye. Oh, dear, what were the horrible man’s intentions? She slipped her fan back into her purse and hastened to her father’s side.
Jamie Munro was speaking quietly to a fettered youth who appeared a good five years younger than her one and twenty years. “All I ask, young man, is honesty and a good day’s work. In exchange, ye’ll have food, clean clothes, and a clean pallet.”
The spindly boy’s eyes lit up, and he licked his dry, chapped lips. “Food?”
Virginia’s father nodded. “Aye. Mind you, ye willna be working for me, lad, but for my widowed sister, here, in Boston. Do ye have any experience as a servant?”
The boy lowered his head and shook it. He shuffled his feet, the scrape of his chains on the deck grating at Virginia’s heart.
“Papa,” she whispered.
Jamie held up a hand. “Doona fash yerself, lass. I’ll be taking the boy.”
As the boy looked up, his wide grin cracked the dried dirt on his cheeks. “Thank you, my lord.”
Jamie winced. “Mr. Munro, it is. We’ll have none of that lordy talk aboot here. Welcome to America.” He extended a hand, which the boy timidly accepted. “What is yer name, lad?”
“George Peeper, sir.”
“Father.” Virginia tugged at the sleeve of his blue serge coat. “Can we afford any more?”
Jamie Munro’s eyes widened and he blinked at his daughter. “More? Just an hour ago, ye upbraided me aboot the evils of purchasing people, and now ye want more? ’Tis no’ like buying ribbons for yer bonny red hair.”
“I know, but this is important.” She leaned toward him. “Do you see the tall man in lavender silk?”
Jamie’s nose wrinkled. “Aye. Who could miss him?”
“Well, he wanted to purchase me—”
“What?”
She pressed the palms of her hands against her father’s broad chest as he moved to confront the dandy. “ ’Twas a misunderstanding. Please.”
His blue eyes glittering with anger, Jamie clenched his fists. “Let me punch him for you, lass.”
“No, listen to me. I fear he means to buy one of those ladies for . . . immoral purposes.”
Jamie frowned at her. “And what would ye be knowing of a man’s immoral purposes?”
“Father, I grew up on a farm. I can make certain deductions, and I know from the way he looked at me, the man is not looking for someone to scrub his pots.”
“What can I do aboot it?”
“If he decides he wants one, you could outbid him.”
“He would just buy another, Ginny. I canna be buying the whole ship. I can scarcely afford this one here.”
She bit her lip, considering. “You could buy one more if Aunt Mary pays for George. She can afford it much more than we.”
“Nay.” Jamie shook his head. “I willna have my sister paying. This is the least I can do to help Mary before we leave. Besides, I seriously doubt I could outbid the dandy even once. Look at the rich way he’s dressed, though I havena stet clue why a man would spend good coin to look like that.”
The ship rocked suddenly, and Virginia held fast to her father’s arm. A breeze wafted past her, carrying the scent of unwashed bodies. She wrinkled her nose. She should have displayed the foresight to bring a scented handkerchief, though not as overpowering as the one sported by the lavender popinjay.
Having completed his leisurely perusal of the women, Mr. Stanton was now conversing quietly with a young boy.
“Look, Father, that boy is so young to be all alone. He cannot be more than ten.”
“Aye,” Jamie replied. “We can only hope a good family will be taking him in.”
“How much for the boy?” Mr. Stanton demanded in a loud voice.
The captain answered, “You’ll be thinking twice before taking that one. He’s an expensive little wretch.”
Mr. Stanton lowered his voice. “Why is that?”
“I’ll be needing payment for his passage and his mother’s. The silly tart died on the voyage, so the boy owes you fourteen years of labor.”
The boy swung around and shook a fist at the captain. “Me mum was not a tart, ye bloody old bugger!”
The captain yelled back, “And he has a foul mouth, as you can see. You’ll be taking the strap to him before the day is out.”
Virginia squeezed her father’s arm. “The boy is responsible for his mother’s debt?”
“Aye.” Jamie nodded. “ ’Tis how it works.”
Mr. Stanton adjusted the lace on his sleeves. “I have a fancy to be extravagant today. Name your price.”
“At least the poor boy will have a roof over his head and food to eat.” Virginia grimaced. “I only hope the dandy will not dress him in lavender silk.”
Jamie Munro frowned. “Oh, dear.”
“What is it, Father?”
“Ye say the man was interested in you, Ginny?”
“Aye, he seemed to like me in his own horrid way.”
“Hmm. Perhaps the lad will be all right. At any rate, ’tis too late now. Let me pay for George, and we’ll be on our way.”
An Excerpt from
TURN TO DARKNESS
by Jaime Rush
Enter the world of the Offspring with this latest novella in Jaime Rush’s fabulous paranormal series.
CHAPTER ONE
When Shea Baker pulled into her driveway, the sight of Darius’s black coupe in front of her little rented house annoyed her. That it wasn’t Greer’s Jeep, and that she was disappointed it wasn’t, annoyed the hell out of her.
Darius pulled out his partially dismantled wheelchair from inside the car and put it together within a few seconds. His slide from the driver’s seat into his wheelchair was so practiced it was almost fluid. He waved, oblivious to her frown, and wheeled over to her truck. “As pale as you looked after hearing what Tucker, Del, and I went through, I thought you’d go right home.” He wore his dark blond hair in a James Dean style, his waves gelled to stand up.
She had been freaked. Two men trying to kill them, men who would kill them all if they knew about their existence. She yanked her baseball cap lower on her head, a nervous habit. “I had a couple of jobs to check on. What brings you by?” She hoped it was something quick he could tell her right there and leave.
“Tucker kicked me out. I think he feels threatened by me, because I had to take charge. I saved the day, and he won’t even admit it.”
None of the guys were comfortable with Darius. His mercurial mood shifts and oversized ego were irritating, but the shadows in his eyes hinted at an affinity for violence. In the two years he’d lived with them, though, he’d mostly kept to himself. She’d had no problem with him because he remained aloof, never revealing his emotions, even when he talked about the car accident that had taken his mobility. Unfortunately, when he thought she was reaching out to him, that aloofness had changed to romantic interest.
“Sounded like you went off the rails.” She crossed her arms in front of her. “Look, if you’re here to get me on your side, I won’t—”
“I’d never ask you to do that.” His upper lip lifted in a sneer. “I know you’re loyal only to Tucker.”
She narrowed her eyes, her body stiffening. “Tuck’s like a big brother to me. He gave me a home when I was on the streets, told me why I have extraordinary powers.” That she’d inherited DNA from another dimension was crazy-wild, but it made as much sense as, say, being able to move objects with her mind. “I’d take his side over anyone’s.”<
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“Wish someone would feel that kind of loyalty to me,” Darius muttered under his breath, making her wonder if he was trying to elicit her sympathy. “I get that you’re brotherly/sisterly.” He let those words settle for a second. “But something happened with you and Greer, didn’t it? What did he do, grope you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Greer would never do something like that.”
“Something happened, because all of a sudden the way you looked at each other changed. Like he was way interested in you, and you were way uncomfortable around him. Then you sat all close to me, and I know you felt the same electricity I did.”
She shook her head, sending her curly ponytail swinging over her shoulder. “There was no electricity. Greer and I had a . . . disagreement. I needed to put some space between us, but when you live in a house with four other people, there isn’t a lot of room. When I sat next to you, I was just moving away from him.”
Darius’s shoulders, wide and muscular, stiffened. “You might think that, Shea. You might even believe it. But someday you’re going to realize you want me. And when you do, I want you to know I can satisfy you. When I’m in Darkness, I’m a whole man.” That dark glint in his eyes hinted at his arrogance. “I’m capable of anything.”
Those words shivered through her, but not in the way he’d intended. In that moment, she knew somehow that he was capable of anything. Darius might be confined to a wheelchair, but only a fool would underestimate him, and she was no fool. Especially where Darkness was concerned. The guys possessed it, yet didn’t know exactly what it was. All they knew was that they’d probably inherited it, along with the DNA that gave them extraordinary powers, from the men who’d gotten their mothers pregnant. It allowed them to Become something far from human.
“Please, Darius, don’t talk to me about that kind of thing. I’m not interested in having sex with anyone.”
The corner of his mouth twisted cruelly. “Don’t you like sex? Maybe you’ve never been with someone who could do it well.”
