Silver-Tongued Temptress

by Sara Ackerman

  Nothing had changed between them. He was a nomad and she a lady, but this time he stayed. Tonight was not the first time he had questioned whether he had done the right thing in bringing her with him. After all these years, doubts assailed him, and the apprehensive youth he had been returned to torment him.

  “I need to know, Grandmother. She must know.”

  “You’d risk everything—your clan, your livelihood, your freedom—to keep her here?”

  “If there is even a small chance, I have to find out.”

  “What if she is unwilling to cooperate?”

  “I will make her see reason.”

  “I did not nurse her back to health to have you torture the poor woman. Once I perpetuated a horrible hoax on her and her sisters, and I vowed if ever I could do her a good turn, I would. She was brought to me so I could heal her and fulfill my vow. You will not harm her.”

  “I have no intention of causing her harm, but if she refuses to answer my questions, I will do what I must.”

  “Haven’t we hurt her enough? It is evident she has not had an easy life since you two last met.”

  “Her struggles and her pain are of little importance to me. There are other, more pressing matters I wish to discuss with her.”

  “Better she had died in the water than be brought here to be treated with such cold indifference from a man she once loved.”

  “I promise you this—No harm will come to her as long as she cooperates.”

  “And if she doesn’t?”

  He remained silent, refusing to voice what he had been planning to do to her since finding her floating in the ocean.

  “God help her.”

  “Maybe you’re right. I should have left her. While you’re praying for her soul, tell your God this—I will discover what she has hidden, and nothing short of divine intervention will save her if she lies.”

  He flopped back on his cot and flung an arm over his face, a clear act of dismissal. She had no right to question his motives. His rights, denied for almost ten years, were important, not the pale, injured woman who had once stolen his heart.

  His muscles tensed, and he resisted the urge to lash out. His grandmother didn’t deserve his ire, no matter if she was protecting his former lover. Gnashing his teeth, he pushed aside all tender memories of their brief time together and focused his energy on his growing rage. It suited him, for in anger there was clarity, and one fact remained clear. She would pay for the damage she had caused him.

  It was quiet for so long he thought his grandmother must have returned to the sick room and her post by her patient’s side. He removed his arm from his face and jumped, surprised to find her standing by his bed, her small hands fisted and trembling. Surprise had him sitting back in alarm, but it was her voice, full of censure and sorrow, which pierced the black cloud of anger and shamed him into submission. He lowered his head.

  “You should have left her alone, Luka, but we both know you never could.” Turning on her heels, she retreated to the far side of the cottage and to the room holding the one woman he had never forgotten.

  Chapter 2

  York, England, June 1793

  Lady Beatrice Westby, aged eleven, was the apple of her father’s eye, the queen of the nursery, and the most popular young lady in the neighborhood. With her golden hair, piercing blue eyes, and heart-shaped face, she was beautiful, or so everyone told her. However, being eleven and in possession of her own mirror, she had looked in the glass enough to know it to be true. Beauty, though, faded, and Beatrice had long accepted she must have more to rely on than her pretty face and pleasing disposition. Aside from possessing one large, old-looking mirror, Lady Beatrice also possessed a keen sense of society’s constructs and the obligations required therein. These rules held no interest for her, and it was with some impending dread she looked to the future and her own eventual presentation to her peers’ midst. When opportunity to cause mischief availed itself to her, she accepted with alacrity. Having no wish to hurry along her childhood, Beatrice often found herself in unpredictable situations, and as her younger sisters followed where she led, her father’s stern hand was not an uncommon occurrence on her backside as he meted out punishment for whatever her latest escapade had been. Her sisters, who were too scared to create mischief without her, adored her joie de vivre, as did all the little girls in the vicinity. She was the undisputed leader, and Beatrice found she enjoyed the admiration of her peers. Thus, she had lived eleven years with unfettered adoration from all who knew her. Few could resist her patented blend of coy innocence, striking beauty, and unquenchable zest for life.

  “Except this boy,” she muttered. Peeking from behind an oak tree on the eastern edge of her father’s property, she spied on the young fellow who stood in a clearing some fifty feet away, talking to an older woman.

  The gypsies had arrived for the summer. Her father, the Earl of Westby, had long been hospitable with the Rom, who came each summer to York to camp in her father’s eastern woods. In exchange, the Rom’s chief gifted her father with one of their prized horses, bred for speed and stamina. Her father adored his stallion. In fact, she suspected he doted on it more than he did her mother. She suspected her mother knew that, as well, though she’d never be so impertinent as to ask. For several years, she had heard her father wax eloquent about his horse and the superior horseflesh the Rom bred. Beatrice, whose curiosity had been piqued, wished to meet them, and so she had snuck out of the nursery and made for the eastern woods. For the last half an hour, she had been trying to gain the attention of the young black-haired boy who had come to the clearing to assist an older woman with the washing. He failed to take notice of her. Beatrice did not like the word “failure.”

  It was a hot day, the air stale and oppressive, and she wiggled as the sweat pooled on her back. Failing on a hot day was so much worse than failing on a cool day. At least if it had been cool, she would have been able to retreat in some comfort. Now, if she fled, the sultry June day and her pooling sweat would serve to further her dissatisfaction. She scowled at the boy, angry he had forced her to even contemplate fleeing.

  The boy, several years older than she, noticed her and grimaced. He pointed.

  “Who’s the girl staring at me?” the boy asked, his voice carrying on the slight breeze to her curious ears.

  He had noticed her! Bea stared at the boy and watched the older woman pull her curly raven tresses off her neck and tie it back with a purple scarf.

  The woman jerked her head to the small copse of trees where Bea was hiding. “Her?”

  “Yes. There is a girl not much younger than me hiding behind the oak tree. Who is she?” the boy asked.

  Bea ducked behind the trunk and pulled herself farther into the tree’s great shadow. A hot breeze whistled through the tall grasses, lifted her blonde curls, and whipped them about her head, betraying her hiding spot. With curls flying about her head, she was like a ruffled chicken and imagined how ridiculous she must look hidden behind a tree but with her hair visible to the world. Leaving the relative anonymity of the tree trunk, she stepped from behind it and watched the boy.

  He tugged his linen shirt away from his skin and shifted on his feet. He fidgeted and squirmed, casting impatient glances to the older woman in the brilliant purple scarf, who, for all intents and purposes, was content hanging out her washing to dry.

  The boy furrowed his brow and scowled at her. Never one to be cowed by an irritated male, Bea lifted her hand and waved, a grin wreathing her face.

  If possible, the boy graced her with an even more derisive scowl before he swung his foot and kicked a rock. He picked it up and measured its size and heft. When his fingers folded around the solid projectile and he raised his arm behind his head, anger was swift to rise in her breast. Before she could storm over there and give the cretin a piece of her mind, a voice whispered in her head, You’ll attract more flies with honey than with vinegar.

  Her ire abated, if only for the moment, so Bea decided to put in
to practice what she had seen the ladies at her mother’s card parties employ when they wanted to gain the attention of a young man. She bit her lower lip and looked at him from underneath her eyelashes before resting her cheek against the trunk to gaze at him with wide, blue eyes. Even though this flirting business made her feel like a ridiculous pigeon, she sighed loudly. How boys are so stupid to fall for a simple sigh is beyond me.

  But the longer she gazed at him, the more agitated he became. In growing astonishment, and with some self-congratulatory praise for having mastered so many feminine wiles at such a young age, she watched the boy tug the hem of his shirt from his trousers and yank it over his head. He had the shirt halfway over his head when the older woman intervened.

  “Luka!” the raven-haired woman scolded. “Keep your shirt on. There is a lady present.”

  Luka. Too fine a name for such a prickly, unpleasant boy.

  “What lady? You mean her?” He jerked his arms toward Beatrice, but trussed up as he was, trapped in his own shirt, he resembled a puppet more than a young man. Bea stifled a giggle.

  The woman helped him right his shirt before grabbing another wet garment, snapping it in the breeze and hanging it with the rest of the colorful clothes flapping in the hot wind. “She’s the earl’s daughter. Lady Beatrice. She’s most likely curious and wants to be friends. Put your shirt back on and go talk to her.”

  He scowled and scuffed the dirt, his reluctance obvious even from where she stood.

  “Do I have to, Grandmother?”

  His grandmother grabbed him by the ear and twisted. “Go, boy, and put the rock down. There will be no throwing stones today.”

  Bea waited while he dropped the rock and skulked over to where she stood. Once there, he opened his mouth, then closed it shut, having said nothing. He kicked the tree instead.

  “Aren’t you going to say something?” Bea asked. “It’s rude to stare. You do know that, don’t you?”

  “I…ah…”

  She cocked her head to one side. “Are you slow?” She exaggerated each word to aid in his comprehension.

  “I am not!”

  “Of course you’re not,” she said, hoping her tone had captured her mother’s blend of sweet condescension. “But if you were slow, I imagine that is what you would say, hmm?”

  “Girl, do not speak to me in such a rude way! I am to be chief one day.”

  “You may call me Lady Beatrice, boy.”

  “I am Luka Stefano, the chief’s son. Do not call me ‘boy.’ ”

  The chief’s son? Here I’d prepared myself for a boring day. “If you are the chief’s son, you will know which horses are the best racers.”

  He squared his shoulders and raised his chin. “Of course I do. I know all the best racers because my father and I trained them.”

  “Show me.” She peered up at him from beneath her lashes. “Unless you lie and are not the chief’s son.”

  He pulled himself to his full height and puffed out his chest, though it was little more than bony ribs. “I am who I say I am. Come. I will show you.”

  She curtsied, and the great chief took her hand in his and led the way.

  “You don’t know it yet, Luka Stefano, but you are mine.”

  “What?”

  She gifted him with a sweet smile. “Nothing.”

  Chapter 3

  Herm, Channel Islands, August 1810

  Luka awoke, sat upright, and panted, staring wildly about him. The lingering echo of Bea’s sweet smile refused to fade, and for a moment, he was caught between past and present. Where am I? He searched for a familiar landmark to orient himself and dispel the lingering pull of his dream until his vision grew accustomed to the pre-dawn darkness. A crash and a roar penetrated the rapid flow of blood in his ears, and the familiar salty sea tang returned him to the present. He was in Herm. In his grandmother’s cottage on Herm, to be precise.

  He had dreamt about her again.

  Raking his hands through his tangled mass of black hair, he leapt from bed and pulled on his trousers and boots. Last night’s dream was vivid, more vivid than any other he’d had about Beatrice since fishing her from the cold Channel six weeks ago.

  He fed the fire and sifted through the fading dream images as consciousness cleared sleep’s fog and chased his nighttime visions away. This dream in particular, their first meeting, brought a reluctant smile to his face. At age eleven, she was every inch the warrior lady. Impetuous. Commanding. Brave. He remembered her daring as she sat on the paddock fence, watching the horses race about the enclosure. Though years and misunderstandings had separated them, he had never forgotten the simple pleasure she found from watching the horses run. It was what he’d admired most about her. No, this dream resurrected something new, something he had buried long ago.

  At age thirteen, when he had been more boy than man, he had fallen for her, captivated by her beauty and enchanted by her wit and bravery. He had fallen in love with her the day they met, and he was afraid he had never stopped.

  “Merde! This complicates everything.”

  The fire flickered in the stone hearth, its welcome flames dispelling the morning darkness. It did little to ease his frustration. He stormed outside to the small freshwater stream behind his grandmother’s cottage, bent and scooped a pitcher full. Stomping back to the cottage, he poured the water into the teapot and put the kettle on to boil. He lumbered to the sideboard and removed the bread, cheese, and fruit from last night’s meal, then slammed the food onto the table and sank onto his chair, stuffing a piece of bread into his mouth with considerable force.

  “What foulness infects you this morning?” his grandmother asked. She tightened her shawl about her shoulders and removed the kettle from the fire. Angry as he was, he had missed its incessant whistling. His grandmother had heard and had awakened to tend to it. She didn’t scold but took two cups from the sideboard and poured each one of them a cup of tea. He grabbed the sturdy china handle and gulped the hot liquid, scalding his tongue.

  “Merde! Ouch!” He grabbed his ear where his grandmother had twisted it. “What was that for?”

  “Watch your tongue, Luka.” She stood over him, anger darkening her features. “You may be chief, but I am your grandmother. You disrespect me with such language.”

  “My apologies, Aba. I had a rough night.”

  “More dreams?”

  He shouldn’t be surprised she knew about his dreams. Though he had not spoken of them, Aba knew all. “About Bea. Last night I dreamt of our first meeting.”

  “Hmm.”

  Aba. As inscrutable as the grave. When she was ready, she’d tell him her interpretations of his dreams. In the meantime, he was hungry. He pared an apple and popped a slice into his mouth before offering her one.

  They chewed in companionable silence, which gave him the time he needed to rein in his temper.

  “When is the last time you bedded a woman?”

  The apple stuck in his throat, and he choked, coughing until the offending piece dislodged. He grabbed his tea to ease his cough and burned his tongue yet again. This time, he limited his swearing to an internal string of profanity which would have made a hardened sailor blush. When he had calmed himself and was certain he would not tell his grandmother to mind her own damned business, he said, “I’m not comfortable discussing this with you.”

  “It’s been at least six weeks. Did you bed Widow Badi before sailing to Herm? She is an eager one.”

  The fat, greasy widow who traded her services for food and shelter came to mind, and he shuddered. “She may be eager, but I am not.”

  Aba refilled his teacup. “You need a woman. Sail to Guernsey today. Find yourself a woman or two. Stay a couple of days. When you return, you will be refreshed.”

  “I am fine.”

  She snorted. “Sure, you are fine. You have chopped enough wood to see me through two winters.”

  “Someone needed to clean the downed tree. I have nothing else to do while I wait.”

&n
bsp; “Luka, she has not awoken for more than minutes at a time. Maybe when you return she will. You can take her to bed if the women of Guernsey do not tempt you.”

  “I am not sailing to Guernsey, and I am not bedding a whore.”

  “Beatrice is not a whore.”

  “No, but I do not harbor any romantic love for her. It would be wrong to bed her when once I did.”

  “Why not go to Guernsey? The women there do not expect love.”

  He pushed his chair back and slammed his fist on the table, rattling the teacups in their saucers. Aba looked on with cool indifference.

  “Because I do not need a woman! Now stay out of my affairs, you nosey old woman!” He stalked to his bed and pulled on his shirt. He grabbed his haversack, shoved some food into it, and stormed to the door.

  She stopped him before he made his escape. “Do you want to know why she haunts your nights, or why you won’t bed another woman while she lingers in the other room?”

  He counted to ten and reminded himself strangling his grandmother would accomplish nothing save to release some of his tension. He smiled through clenched teeth. “No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

  “You love her, and your conscience objects to what you have planned for her if she awakens.”

  “I do not love her. Not after what she did.” He shuddered and suppressed the urge to bound into the sick room and shake the woman awake. “Any hope of us loving each other died nine years ago.”

  “Believe what you will, Luka. We both know it’s a lie.”

  He grabbed his hat from the peg by the door and squashed it onto his head. “I’m leaving. I’ll be back by dinner.”

  She shouted to his retreating back, “If you’re not going to Guernsey, at least take your ax. You need something to do to burn through your foul mood!”

  Chapter 4

  York, England, July 1795

  Beatrice was full of energy, the excitement of the day humming through her fourteen-year-old body. “I’ve never been to a fair before,” she said, her eyes agape as she took in the bustling small town. Villagers milled about the town center, stopping here and there to peruse the merchants’ tables along the main road into town. Behind the church, a makeshift ring had been created, and horses with their riders riding bareback were demonstrating their archery skills. A small band played in the town center, and couples danced to the lively tunes picked out on weathered fiddles.