My Wicked Fantasy

by Karen Ranney

  “I did as you requested, Archer, and sent notices throughout Indonesia and Malaysia. I met with the Caroline, and sent the Shikoku’s captain the same message. No one has seen or heard anything of the countess.”

  The stateroom was luxuriously appointed, a signature treatment of St. John vessels. The larger China and Spice Island ships were all equipped for comfort, especially the captain’s quarters, even to the extent that valuable space in the hold was sacrificed. It had taken only one voyage for Archer to realize that eighteen months aboard ship could be made either palatable, or a version of hell. Therefore, he’d given orders that all quarters were to have full-size bunks and a comfortable grouping of chairs and table, all bolted to the floor, of course. There were bookshelves and lanterns that had the safety feature of extinguishing should they be tilted or turned. Large, ported windows held a view of the aft of the ship, while the grate at the top of the cabin allowed light. Thousands of thick glass prisms had been installed in the planking of the deck. The glass magnified sunlight, illuminating places in large ships that had been forever dark.

  Archer said nothing as he poured himself another measure of brandy. There were, after all, no words to say. How did one confess that he was not surprised to have received no word of Alice? Such news would have been too easy and thus too suspect.

  He wanted, idiotically, to confide in Mary Kate that his initial efforts had not gone well. But he had not even said farewell to her.

  No, that was not quite true, was it, Archer? Their parting had been a night’s duration. Words could not have made it any more final than the exquisite and painful joy of holding Mary Kate until she’d fallen into an uneasy slumber. For long hours he’d lain there listening to her breathe, occasionally brushing a fingertip against a wrist as if to test the beat of her blood.

  She’d made a sound in her sleep that had reminded him too much of a whimper. The sound a puppy might make in pain, too new to the world to trust its goodness, too young to know its cruelty.

  He wanted to hold her tighter, but he did not wish to awake her, so he simply looked out over the world turning gold and pink and pretended that he could easily bear a hundred, a thousand, tomorrows without her at his side.

  He’d never shared so much of himself with anyone, not even Alice. But then, he’d thought of late that he had not divulged much of himself to his wife, only those parts he’d considered appropriate and washed, near virgin in their innocence. The darkness, he’d never shared, the simmering, always loneliness he seemed to feel, even in the place he loved best of all places.

  He did not touch Mary Kate beyond the embrace that sheltered her in her sleep. Not one softening kiss did he bestow on her delightful shoulders, not one caress to her curving waist and the flaring of hip. He could not bear to touch those long, perfect legs, and although his fingers itched to explore the dell of soft red hair cushioning her female secrets, he did not.

  What society wished or conveyed or sanctioned of its members had never disturbed or controlled Archer St. John. Instead, he had been forced at an early age to determine what was necessary for his own survival. As a child, it had been his mother and Neddy. The stuffed horse casually gifted him by a friend of his mother had long since rotted; Bernie would be devoted until the day she died. As a young man, it had been food for his mind and women for his libido. Later still, it had been the execution of his responsibilities and the assuagement of certain bodily needs.

  During this lifelong search for what appeased him, he’d discovered that he was a creature of sensation. He liked the feel of silk against his skin, loved the texture of Russian sable. He preferred variety among his foods, preferred no cuisine to another but insisted upon greens and light sauces. His wine cellar was chosen for taste, not for popularity, and he especially enjoyed a night spent before a roaring fire, sipping port while granted the companionship of a lovely woman. If the woman was not available, a good book would suffice temporarily. He was offended by other than well-modulated voices—too many times he had watched a beautiful woman open her mouth and destroy the illusion she had so earnestly sought with a few simple sentences. He was sensitive to odors, preferring his own company to that of an ill-washed companion, and some of the members of the peerage still believed that bathing opened up the body to harmful humors. An afternoon walking through Sanderhurst’s great parklike vistas was to enliven all his senses, the budding apple trees, the hum of bees, the sound of swallow, nightingale; all these experiences seemed to seep into his very soul.

  As had the feel of Mary Kate sleeping in his arms.

  She’d come to him with less experience than the most innocent female of the ton. He’d brought to their mating a knowledge crafted from dozens of partners. He had eschewed the company of others; she was too used to being surrounded by crowds. His wealth had insulated him from the world, had made it possible for him to do as he wished, occupying his days with those things of his particular interest. Her poverty had demanded ceaseless employment, her days spent in the service of others in order to provide for herself.

  Yet the similarities were there, even if they did not show themselves as readily or as easily as their differences. He had been educated at the finest of schools; she’d been taught nearly the same curriculum by a retired governess with naught to do all day but indulge in her passion for literature and history. He had been taught never to trust, despite the fact that he found himself wishing to. She had been shown that it was better to depend only upon herself, that trust was an emotion with little promise. She had been overlooked because of who she was, rendered invisible by her station in life, her servitude, and yet the person of Archer St. John had been supplanted by the function he occupied, by being head of the St. John empire. Seen not for who he was, but what he could give others. Known not for himself, but what his money could bring.

  When had he taken to anticipating the mornings, when she would come and visit him in his glasshouse, attired in one of the garments given to her by his mother, her face scrubbed clean and fresh, her eyes alight with curiosity and mischief?

  When had he grown so accustomed to hearing her version of life at Sanderhurst? Sometimes she ventured to the kitchens, pretending she was not pariah there, and sat talking with Peter, only to relate to him all of the gossip of the house, surprising him with knowledge he’d never before learned, along with the feeling that there was more to Sanderhurst than he’d ever known.

  When had he become so used to the feelings she aroused in him? Simple lust and complicated need.

  Dear God, he wished to be a duke, toppling over cabbages.

  Mary Kate’s’ transition from sleep to wakefulness had been accomplished in a second. There was no sloughing off of sleep, no gray fog in which she surfaced layer upon layer, only this, the sudden wakefulness that had her staring into his eyes with a soft smile.

  “Is it morning, then?”

  “No,” he lied. “Midnight at most Go back to sleep.”

  He levered himself up on one elbow and studied her. She brushed back her tangled hair with one hand. She blinked at him, reached up with one hand and touched his cheek tenderly, cradling her palm against it. A drowsy, smile lit upon her lips with the fleeting touch of a butterfly before she fell asleep again.

  And that was the last time he’d seen Mary Kate.

  “You haven’t heard a bloody word I’ve said, have you?”

  Archer blinked, then smiled, a confession in his grin.

  “And here I was, dazzling you with my brilliant recitation of all the ports I visited on your behalf.”

  “I doubt Alice would travel on a St. John ship.”

  “I’ve thought the same thing, Archer. Which is why I took the liberty of posting handbills in each port we visited. You are, I hope, prepared to offer a sizable reward?”

  “How much did you obligate me for, Robert?” A hand was extended in the air as if to wipe away the words. “Never mind. It does not matter. What is my peace of mind worth, after all?”

  “Will yo
u take her back?”

  Friendship was an onerous obligation, Archer thought. It required opening one’s soul up to scrutiny, one’s methods to investigation, one’s very thoughts to interpretation. He wasn’t sure at that moment how much he wanted to continue this friendship. Enough to answer the question?

  In the end he did, not simply because he was low on friends and Robert Dunley had always been a man he admired. Not even because it was an easy question to answer. It was not. No, he answered it because it was something he had long since decided.

  “If my wife wishes a bill of divorcement, then I will grant it to her, Robert. And should she be desirous of a reconciliation, I can do no less.”

  Robert reached over the table and clinked his glass against Archer’s. “I salute you, then, my friend. You show more perseverance and more forgiveness than ever I could feel.”

  “I do not know that it is forgiveness, Robert, as much as it is a certain knowledge of my own grievous faults. How, then, can I judge anyone else?”

  “Plenty of people try, Archer. The world is filled with hypocrites.”

  “And I do believe I am related to a great many of them,” Archer admitted with a smile.

  “Well, I told the pasha that it was frowned upon, abducting His Majesty’s subjects, not that I wasn’t complimented, of course. He simply declared that the English king had no sovereignty over his country. That he was absolute ruler and as such had decided that I would make a very acceptable wife number one hundred eleven.”

  “How on earth did you get out of that situation, Bernie?”

  Bernie’s eyes twinkled. She folded the last bolt of cloth and placed it on the table.

  “Well, the British consul, you see, took a very dim view of an Englishwoman, especially a countess, being paraded through the pasha’s district as the newest wife. They told him that it was perfectly acceptable to take me to wife as long as I was confined to the harem. I, on the other hand, refused to be locked up with a group of bored and malevolent women. Therefore, we parted company, quite amicably. I suppose you might call me Her Highness. Unless, of course, he has divorced me, which is quite easily done in Arabia.”

  Bernie placed another pile of cloth alongside the white satin. “You disappoint me, my dear. I quite expected you to be amused. At the very least, you might have been impressed that you were hobnobbing with royalty. Very well, then, but I expect you to be overwhelmed by my generosity. All this lovely fabric can be made into quite proper gowns. I have no intention of your leaving Sanderhurst dressed in that hideous black. In fact,” she muttered, the argument one of long-standing duration between them, “I do not see why you feel you should leave at all. We can accomplish by post what you think to do in person.”

  She turned and glanced at Mary Kate, the censure of her expression changing to alarm as she viewed her companion.

  “Mary Kate?”

  A pause as she waited for a response.

  “If you do not speak to me, Mary Kate Bennett, I shall summon Jonathan. I shall burn feathers and wave them beneath your nose. I shall unearth my sal volatile from wherever the bloody blazes I’ve misplaced it and render you nauseous.” She chafed the younger woman’s wrists, patted her gently on the cheeks, but Mary Kate did not cease her wide-eyed stare.

  She was lost. Lost in a world colored indigo, white filmy clouds passing over her face, through her as she was led deeper into a place she’d never been before. There was no one here in this space but herself, marooned in a world created from darkness. There was no light, no hint of radiance beyond the line of horizon. Only the blackness beckoned. It was a great and giant fog of nothingness, a place that ate up all that lay before it.

  And into this void came terror. A thought at first, it began to take shape, a huge, bloated monster of a feeling, which inhaled the nothingness and ate up the blackness and made her want to cry out. But of course, she could not because she was trapped in this feeling.

  “A whimper is not speech, Mary Kate, and I really must insist you talk to me. I am growing quite tired of this eerie little demonstration.” Bernie took her by the shoulders and shook her, but Mary Kate could barely feel it. A mewl of terror emerged from her lips.

  Now she could faintly hear Bernie bellow for Jonathan. The feeling of dread was growing, the sensation that she was trapped within some horrible vision. The black was being obscured by the red, but in the distance a light was growing. Like a tiny pinprick of hope, Mary Kate concentrated on it, instead of the blackness or the color of blood. Radiant, white, glowing, it seemed to be gaining in size. Help me. How odd that she should feel this emotion, hear the words as if they were shouted instead of thought. An echo trapped within walls. She was so frightened. Then Mary Kate realized it wasn’t simply her emotions she was feeling, nor were they solely her thoughts. Help him…please. Help him….

  Alice.

  HELP HIM….

  The shout of the command was so loud that Mary Kate physically recoiled. She would have fallen from the chair had not Bernie been there to support her, and beside her, Jonathan, who was attempting to revive her with brandy. Only she could not break free of this terrible imprisonment.

  The light grew until it was the size of a large ball, a moon of tiny proportions perched above a bleak landscape. It was the only sensation of hope in this eternity of despair. She focused on it, held tight to the promise of it. Was she dying? Was that what this feeling was, a certainty that she glimpsed death, the utter inability to prevent it, a moment in which she tumbled over the edge and into the pit? On one hand, the suspense was over, the anticipation of it. How odd that we mortals work most of our lives to prevent it, and it is so simply, so ridiculously, easy. But dear God, she did not want to die. Not yet. Please. Not yet. There were too many experiences she wanted to have. Too many words she had not spoken, too much love to feel, not for all humanity, not for all eternity, but for one man.

  She felt such grief, such utter impotence. There was nothing she could do, she could not call his name, she could not warn him, there was not enough time….

  Help…please….

  In a moment the light was extinguished, the hope was gone. Only the bleakness remained. In seconds this feeling of being trapped in a wasteland had gone.

  Mary Kate blinked, looked around the room, which had regained its commodious dimensions, saw Bernie’s concerned face in front of her, felt the arms around her, smelled the pungent aroma of brandy.

  Then the terror came. Her blood chilled and seemed to pool. Her eyes widened, her heart beat too hard. Her fingers trembled, her hands shook. She felt so weak she could barely stand, let alone grip Bernie’s shoulders.

  But she did, impelled by a fear so strong it only mimicked the feeling she’d experienced moments earlier. Mary Kate was nearly incoherent from it. Only once before had she felt such a thing, but even that fright was nothing before this implicit, wordless command.

  James Moresham was in mortal danger.

  Mary Kate stood, overturning the chair, arms flailing in an effort to rid herself of encumbrances.

  “Help me.” Each word seemed carved from marble. Chiseled from a mind incapable of functioning against such agony of fear. “Carriage. James.” Please, Bernie, understand.

  There was something in this room with them, something that lurked in the corners and had a shadowy face. Terror. It sat on such powerful haunches that it was almost a presence, an emotion capable of being supported without a host.

  “Get the bloody carriage ready, Jonathan,” Bernie said, not turning away from Mary Kate. “I believe we’re about to embark upon a mission.”

  “Did you say something, Jeremy?” With the top of his walking stick, Archer knocked on the window separating himself from the driver. This particular carriage was equipped with a device that made it possible for it to be opened from either side.

  “No, sir. I didn’t.”

  Strange. He thought he’d heard a voice. Archer shook his head. He was tired, that was all. A sleepless night, an excess
of emotion. No wonder he was hearing things.

  No, it was the feeling in the back of his neck. A twinge that made him turn repeatedly and look behind him as if he were being prodded somehow.

  There it was again. That was strange, like a whisper against his neck, except that he felt it from the inside. A breath blown against his inner ear.

  It was a fanciful notion that struck him then. An odd thought, totally without basis, without reason.

  It felt like a warning.

  Chapter 37

  His stepmother was a dainty thing, with blond hair that had muted over the years to become rather silver in shade. She was diminutive next to his father, and it struck James as odd that he’d never realized how much Alice resembled her mother. Perhaps, if he had been allowed to grow old with her, he would have looked upon her lovely face one day and seen the same type of wrinkles that he witnessed now upon Cecily’s.

  Would Alice not have been of warmer temperament, however? Alice was capable of great love and greater understanding. Such warmth of nature had made her gentle with others for the sake of it, not because someone might be watching and approve. He had long decided that there was an edge to Cecily’s smile. A coldness that was matched in the blue of her eyes. Sometimes such a look made him wary.

  Occasionally he pitied Samuel, especially when Cecily expressed her opinions with such an anger in her voice, or when she quoted eternally from her ever-present Bible. Was there anyone who sparked her admiration? Or anything that prompted her approval? She was perhaps the most unhappy person he’d ever known, but she hid it well beneath the mantle of a martyr. Religious zealots, James had long since decided, were difficult to live with, even more difficult to understand. But after today, there was no reason to see Cecily again, a thought that prompted his tentative smile.

  He watched as Cecily came closer, wondering if it had been the music that had summoned her to this room. He had not come here in the last year, too heartsick to play, too numbed by loss to compose anything. The melody he played now helped ease his anguish a little. It had spoken to him last night, between the darkness and the dawn, a perfect crystal sound. As if he poured his tears into a vase, and they became the water of life, tiny distilled drops of pure pain and torment and, yes, joy.