Table of Contents
Excerpt
Praise for Sara Ackerman
Silver-Tongued Temptress
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Part II
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Part III
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
A word about the author…
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His forehead rested on hers, and he sighed.
“Of course I loved you. How could I not?” Silken heat caressed her cheek, and she looked into his dark eyes, almost obsidian in the dim loft light. “You were funny and fierce and loyal. I lived on your smiles until I saw you again. There was no one else but you.”
There was no one else but her. Tension coiled in her stomach, but she refused to allow fear to prevent her from knowing. “Four years is a long time. Is there someone now? Have you found another?”
He groaned and gathered her in his arms, nuzzling his nose against her neck. “God help me, but no. There has been no one but you.” Luka kissed her, a gentle meeting of lips which sent tingles skittering along her spine. She wiggled her arms out of his embrace and wrapped herself around him like clinging ivy on a tree.
“Take me with you.”
“Don’t be foolish. You’re the daughter of an earl, and I’m—”
“You’re Luka, clan chief and the man whom I love.”
He stood and strode the short distance to the small, dirty window. Leaning his arm against the wall, he sighed. “It won’t work. My life has beauty, but there are trials I would not wish upon you.”
An idea so delicious and wicked as to make her blush from her ears to her toes intruded in their conversation. There might be a way to change his mind after all.
Praise for Sara Ackerman
“Sara Ackerman flawlessly blends romance, intrigue, and mystery. A fantastic read not to be missed!”
~Rose Lange, “Gracie's Plan”
“Ackerman whisks readers to a magical time and place where lust, betrayal, and a gypsy’s curse enchant each page. Readers will want to travel back in time and make Tavis their own.”
~Ava Black, Crimespree Magazine
~*~
The Westby Sisters Series
includes
LITTLE WHITE LIES
SILENCE IS GOLDEN
and
SILVER-TONGUED TEMPTRESS
and all are available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Silver-Tongued Temptress
by
Sara Ackerman
The Westby Sisters, Book 3
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Silver-Tongued Temptress
COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Sara Ackerman
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Debbie Taylor
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Tea Rose Edition, 2018
Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2015-1
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2016-8
The Westby Sisters, Book 3
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To R—
My past, present and future
Prologue
The Atlantic, June 1810
She was dying. Consciousness, when it came, was riddled with fuzzy memories of searing heat, fear, and pain. Though sweltering flames no longer plagued her, she never wished to be as hot again, though she’d be lying if she said she wouldn’t welcome some warmth. Shivers wracked her body, and her teeth chattered in her head. The Atlantic at night was frigid, and her charred captain’s uniform did little to stave off the biting cold. At first the cool, lapping waves had been soothing and had helped take the edge off the worst of her discomfort, but now the water’s chilling embrace cloaked her, urging her to concede to its greater power. A stubborn part of her refused to give in to the pull of its waiting, dark depths, yet soon even that small resistance would disappear.
Fear had abandoned her, too. For a woman who had spent years dodging death, she had never entertained the possibility she could die. How wrong she was. Yet with her own demise near, she no longer feared. Instead, she welcomed her release as one would an old friend, even imagining Death’s shadowy figure slipping its arms around her body to cradle her, biding its time as she bobbed in the ocean atop a ragged plank.
Pain alone remained to remind her she yet lived. Though an ache pounded in her side, it had long since ceased to throb. A dull twinge resided there, right under her heart, and with each passing moment, the ache lessened. The searing agony which had sent a trail of fire down her left leg had long since been silenced. Soon, all suffering would cease.
Sandbags descended on her lids, making it nearly impossible to stay awake. It would all be over soon, and she could rest for an eternity. Exhaustion numbed her to all else save her own pitiful plight. Her duty to her country, her life in London, her family—all were meaningless compared to the beckoning haven which awaited her beyond. Lights illuminated the distant horizon, though darkness veiled the sun, and she extended a shaking hand to touch the dancing orbs. They were beautiful. Her sisters would love to see them.
My sisters. They must know what happened to me.
The reminder of her sisters roused her from the inevitable descent to death, and she forced her tired lids to open. Gritting her teeth against a fresh assault of pain, she pulled out the dagger she kept within her boot’s leathery folds. Her hands shook as much from the cold as from the effort, but she grasped onto the wooden hilt and held it in her hands. With painstaking care, she dragged the knife’s sharp tip over the charred wood, every letter firm and precise. When she finished, she traced each word with her finger, reminding herself who she was.
Her job done, she rolled to her back and stared at the circling orbs, their light brighter and more intense than before. Consciousness was fading, and swirling darkness claimed her. Death, which had remained with her to the end, tightened its grasp, and she smiled, mouthing the words she had etched on the plank: “I am Bea Westby.” Her lids closed on her final sigh, and the circling lights came closer. Distant sh
outs echoed, and rough hands grasped her arms, but she ignored them.
What did it matter? She was dead already.
****
An explosion rocketed the night sky, sending columns of red and orange flaring across the horizon. Luka Stefano watched the flames from the small island of Herm, some three miles off Guernsey’s main archipelago, and swore.
“Merde! Fortier, Andres!” he yelled to his two companions. “Get the boat. Maybe there will be something to salvage, if we hurry.” The ship had been compromised, and along with it, so too had her cargo.
His men hustled to the single-masted sailboat which had taken them from France to Herm earlier in the afternoon. He leapt into the boat, digging the oars in the sand beneath to dislodge it while his two men pushed the wooden vessel off the shore. Once she caught the tide, they vaulted into their seats and rowed. Sore shoulder muscles from a too-recent crossing screamed with each stroke he took, but he pushed through his discomfort. They had to reach the ship. He needed the money this run would provide him.
“Faster,” he urged. The men grunted and pulled through the water, each stroke taking them closer to the floundering ship.
Acrid smoke enveloped them as they approached the burning ship, and he tore off a length of his shirt to wrap around his nose and mouth. His eyes watered and burned, and he gritted his teeth against the painful sting.
“Stefano, we can’t see. How are we to find anything in this smoke?” Fortier asked.
“We’re close enough. Use your oars to sift through the water. Whatever you find, bring it aboard.”
Oar in hand, he poked the blunt edge into the dark waters. His men hauled in several smallish crates, and the small boat listed to one side. When the vessel righted itself, it bumped something floating on the water. He recoiled when his hand met with clammy human skin. Hefting his lantern overboard, he peered through the thinning smoke. A body floated nearby, draped across a sizable wooden plank. “I’ve found someone. Help me haul him over.”
The three men tugged the unconscious man’s sodden, scarred hide into the ship. They let him drop with a thud to the hull. “Is he alive?” Fortier asked, poking the seemingly lifeless man with his toe.
Luka pressed his ear to the man’s chest and heard a faint thumping. “He’s alive, though barely.”
“What about the rest of the cargo?” Andres resumed his seat and grabbed his oar. “The smoke’s too thick to find anything. Our lanterns do nothing in this haze.”
“Leave the rest. Let’s get out of this smoke and back to shore. We can come back at dawn, when the air has cleared. If not, the general shall be pleased we returned with a prisoner.”
They took up their oars and rowed to shore. “Who is it?” Andres asked, jerking his head to their unconscious prisoner.
Luka grunted and pulled a clean stroke. “From what I saw of him, I’d say the captain, though judging by his size and the peach fuzz he calls a beard, he’s a sorry excuse for one.”
“What will General Reynard do when we return without those supplies?”
“You worry about rowing this boat to shore and leave the general to me. Enough talking. Save your breath for your exertions.” For the next half hour, they rowed in silence, the lapping of waves against the side of the sailboat being the one sound in the otherwise still night. As they neared the shore, the smoke thinned and cleared and moonlight glinted off something metallic on the injured captain’s hand. A worn bracelet made with strips of old cloth tied to a copper face adorned the man’s slender wrist.
It can’t be. He ignored the unsettling sensation taking residence in his gut and concentrated on guiding the ship to shore. His two men jumped into the water and dragged the vessel onto the sand. Once on shore, he rolled the man over and stared hard, trying to see past the soot and singed facial hair. The smaller man’s eyes fluttered open, and he was struck by their icy blue intensity. They held his own for endless moments before slumping closed again. Luka sucked in a breath. But it is.
“Stefano, we have the rest of our supplies. We are ready to sail.”
He took one more look at the inert prisoner, lying near-lifeless and injured in the hull, and came to a decision. “Take the rest back to France.” He hefted the captain’s slight weight in his arms, ignoring the familiarity of the curves nestling against his chest. “This one is mine.”
“You’ll hang if they find you,” Fortier argued. “The general will want to question this English capitaine, and he will see to it you are punished for withholding his prisoner.”
“I took no oaths, nor do I hold allegiance to the French and their cause. The general will be pleased he no longer needs to pay for my services. Deliver the goods we managed to salvage, and tell the general I died in the fire getting his supplies. My death will be of little consequence to him, and there are many more to take my place. Take the clan and leave. Return to Russia. The wars remain far from there yet. You’ll be safe.”
“But, Stefano,” Andres hedged, “what of you?”
“You forget I know this island well. When I am done with my own interrogation and have dispatched the captain, I’ll make my way to Russia.”
He held up his hand to stem any further arguments. “Go. Until I return, you are now the leaders of our clan. I entrust you with the safety of our people.” Both men slapped him on the back before they hopped aboard, pushed off, and rowed away, leaving him standing on the beach with the captain in his arms. Though it pained him to leave his clan, he had more pressing and personal business to attend to.
The bundle in his arms moaned, and he studied his pressing and personal business. He ripped off the ridiculous tricorn and wig and confirmed his suspicions. When blonde curls spilled over his arm, a grim satisfaction replaced his earlier bewilderment.
It was she, and he had her right where he wanted her.
Part I
“The past has a way of sneaking up behind a person and biting him on the arse. But I’m sneakier and always bite first.”
~Luka Stefano
Chapter 1
Herm, Channel Islands, July 1810
A bloodcurdling scream ripped through the tranquil night, jolting Luka from a sound sleep. He sat upright and grabbed the knife he’d stashed under his pillow. As he leaped from bed, his chest heaved and his heart pounded a sharp staccato in his ears as he surveyed the cottage’s darkened corners.
“Put your knife away, you fool. It is her.”
His grandmother shuffled out from the shadows, holding a candle, her long white nightdress enfolding her frail figure in its voluminous folds. The firelight’s flickering dance illuminated her weathered face and accentuated the deep circles underneath her wizened eyes. “She suffers.” She cast a glance over her shoulder to the opened door of the small room where she had been sleeping next to her patient. Every night for the last month she had slept there, tending to the woman’s wounds and bringing her through the worst of her injuries.
Through the open door, he saw the woman’s pale head thrashing on the white linen pillow, the moonlight illuminating her wan pallor and clenched jaw. Her hands fisted around the sheets, and she moaned. He shuddered, thankful she didn’t scream again.
Mingled pain and fear made for a distinct and chilling sound. Many times he had heard such a scream from men on the battlefield who knew their time had come, men who had been rent from their homes, thrust into alien situations, and forced to commit unspeakable acts against other humans. He was familiar with those screams, though familiarity did not breed indifference. They never failed to raise his hackles. Yet when he had first heard her panicked yells shattering the night’s peace, a primal part of his being had reared up and protested. He had desired to protect her and slay whatever demons plagued her, but the best he could manage was to pin her to the bed while his grandmother tended to her injured leg’s scorched flesh. She had thrashed, and he had been forced to employ more force, until his fingers had dug into her shoulders to restrain her. The next morning, angry bruises stood out agains
t her bleached skin like mud on a canvas of white snow. The sight had sickened him. It was the first time he had ever marked a woman.
Even now, with the echo of her howl cradled within the shelter of these modest four walls, the restless beast prowled, eager to take on whatever torments haunted her, to thrash them to submission and allow her some measure of peace. “But why does she suffer? The stab wound has closed and mended without infection. Your own remedy has ensured she will not lose her leg. New skin is growing.” He ran a frustrated hand through his tousled raven locks. “What ails her?”
“Not all pain is physical, Luka.”
“I know, Grandmother, but her body is healing. Why won’t she awaken?”
“Her mind is unwilling to accept all that has occurred. She will awaken when she is ready. Give her time.”
“I have given her a month. Already the summer grows long. If she sleeps much longer, travel will be near impossible. I must return to the mainland before the first ice.” His people awaited him, and as their leader it was his duty to see them settled, fed, and protected. Absence from them made him uneasy.
“You are the one who brought her here. You will stay until she is well.”
“I should never have fished her out of the water.”
“Why did you?”
Grandmother had never asked why he had brought the woman to her cottage. She had taken one look at her injuries and beckoned them in, already rushing about the interior as she gathered herbs and other supplies to tend her wounds. Of course she had recognized her. All in his clan knew her. Lady Beatrice Westby, the wealthy daughter of an earl. She was the last person he should have fallen in love with, yet she had almost become one of them. At the age of eighteen, she’d been willing to run away and be his wife, to leave her world behind for his nomadic lifestyle. On the eve of their elopement, he had left her without a word, knowing his way of life was unsuited for a lady. He wanted better for her, though he suspected his motives were less altruistic and more governed by fear. Unable to comprehend a life attached to a woman who would have grown to despise him, he had run away, a callow boy unfit to love a woman of quality such as his lady.
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