Silver-Tongued Temptress

by Sara Ackerman

  “Never?” Luka asked. She shook her head and ducked her chin. Luka had changed in the nine months his clan had been in France, and she was not accustomed to his altered appearance. Taller now, he stood at least a head above her, nor was he skin and bones, either. Broad-shouldered and long-limbed, he had gained muscle in his legs and arms, testament to the hours of hard work he spent breeding and training his family’s horses. He had let his raven hair grow out, too, and now clubbed it in back with a leather thong.

  “We have a harvest festival every October, and my sisters and I are allowed to participate in some of the activities my mother plans for the tenants.”

  “Let me guess. You favored the dancing.”

  “Hardly. My favorite are the games, but Father will not let me participate anymore since I have become a young woman.”

  She stopped at a merchant booth selling decorated paper fans. “He insists I learn to curb my wild impulses and become a lady.” Opening the fan, she fluttered it in front of her face, concealing all but her eyes. “Am I hopeless?”

  His cheeks flushed, and he swallowed. “Hardly,” he rasped, the deeper timbre of his changing voice causing a foreign fluttering to catch her by surprise.

  Flicking her skirts, she dropped a shallow curtsy and waved her fan, ignoring the unease his response had created. “I thank you for your confidence. I shall try not to disappoint.”

  “It’ll take more than a curtsy and some fancy fan movements for you to become a lady, Tris,” he said, using his nickname for her.

  “Pray, tell me, my roaming nomad, what is required to become a lady?”

  “For one, a lady doesn’t sneak off to a fair with an unrelated man.” He raised his eyebrows, and she flushed.

  “Oh, bother. No one cares where I go as long as I am home for meals. Besides, Papa likes you. He told me so himself.”

  “Did he tell you this before you snuck out the servant’s entrance to meet me here?”

  “You worry too much, Luka. No one will care.” She stopped to sniff a cart with roasted almonds and ceded to impulse. Digging out a coin from her reticule, she paid the man and received a small bag. As she chewed her nuts, she prepared herself for a lecture. Luka gifted her with the look, which meant one of two things. Either he disapproved of something she was planning to do, or he was going to impart his wisdom, as was his right as the older of the two.

  “I am an unrelated man, and you are a female in desperate need of a chaperone. People might talk.”

  “I brought Harriet.” Bea pointed behind her to where her maid sat talking to a friend.

  He snorted. “A fine chaperone she makes.”

  She grabbed his arm and linked hers through it. “I agree. If she were more attentive, we couldn’t walk like this.”

  He extracted his arm from her entwining. “A lady is never forward with a gentleman. She never forces herself on a man or demands his attention.”

  “Gentleman? No ladies and lords or English and Rom here, remember? You’re Luka and I’m Bea. Where we come from, who our people are”—she waved her hand in dismissal—“it doesn’t matter. None of it does, at least not to me.”

  He said nothing but stopped in his tracks. They had walked the length of the village and now stood on the far side of the church, resting in the shadow of the great spire with the music and the vibrant noises of the fair muted and distant.

  “I suppose you’re going to tell me a lady cannot have an opinion, let alone voice it?”

  “I would never presume to tell you what you can or can’t say. My advice is intended as a caution. Other gentlemen with whom you will be expected to meet and interact might not be as tolerant as I am. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

  “My debut is several years in the future. We can meet and carry on as we have.”

  He shook his head. “I’m sixteen now, which in my clan makes me a man. I have responsibilities to my family and my people. One day I will lead my clan, and my father wants me to be prepared.”

  “What are you saying? Can we not be friends?” How had everything changed between them? They had never lacked for conversation, yet their difference in class was one subject they had avoided. Now awkwardness hung between them. Luka believes he speaks the truth. Our class differences will make continued interactions difficult, if not impossible. The earth shifted and a gap opened between them where none had existed before. The separation cut as keen as a knife’s edge.

  “If it is possible, I wish for us to remain friends.” But she heard the note of caution underlying his words.

  She knew what he was saying, or at least what he was trying to say. Being a lady, or a clan leader, came with responsibilities, and neither could ignore them any longer. They were growing up, and in the twilight of their childhood, Luka was warning her they could not continue as they had in the past. Though she was nowhere near ready to abandon the halcyon days of her youth, she did not wish to interfere with Luka’s responsibilities and duties to his clan. They both had roles to play, and in his own way, he was encouraging her to play hers.

  Weariness wrapped around her soul as she contemplated a life of pretend, of fitting in with her peers, of spending nights upon nights in crowded dance rooms, seeing the same people over and over again. How am I to bear it? Looking at Luka, the boy she had claimed as her own two years ago, she knew her answer. She would play her part until she was free to do otherwise. They both would.

  A stone bench beckoned, and she walked the several paces to the trees that sheltered it. Sitting, she placed her reticule and unfinished bag of nuts by the bench’s leg. “You have given me a list of what a lady must not do, Luka. Tell me, what can a lady do?”

  He joined her on the bench and smiled, as if he guessed her purpose in changing the subject. It was not an unlikely scenario. Luka seemed to know her own mind even before she did.

  “A lady must be sweet, kind, and considerate of others.”

  “Are you sure brainless and weak aren’t on this list of yours?” She batted her eyes at him and attempted an insipid smile.

  “Don’t be impertinent. I wasn’t done.”

  “Please, do go on.”

  “Above all, a lady must be observant and cunning, for through careful study of her opponents, she can control a room with a cool smile or a well-timed word or two. Never underestimate the power of your intelligence, Tris.”

  Their conversation played in her head, and though she was loath to admit he was right, he did speak sense. They could not continue as they had forever. One day soon they would go their separate ways, but it wasn’t today. Plus, there were a few things she wished to discover before it happened. “Have you become clan leader yet?”

  “Not yet. When we return to France for the winter, I will assume more of my father’s duties.”

  “Even if you are technically a man, you have yet to assume your place as a man in your clan?”

  “Well, yes, but I don’t see what relevance any of this has to do with—”

  “If you are not yet a man, you are a boy, and as I have not yet been presented to society, I am not a lady.”

  Suspicion clouded his features, and he scooted farther away from her on the bench. “I suppose.”

  “Which means right now we’re a boy and a girl. Friends.”

  “Friends.”

  “As friends, I could, oh, hold your hand.” She grabbed his hand in hers.

  “A lady does not—”

  “We have established I am not yet a lady.” She had to resist gloating when a look, not all dissimilar to panic, crossed his face. Panic faded, and he smiled, conceding her this one victory in a day fraught with change and disappointment.

  He relaxed and squeezed her hand. “You are too cunning by half, Bea. You’ll make an excellent lady one day.”

  “Since I am not, I could ask for a kiss, and you might agree to give it to me.”

  “I might?”

  “Because I am your friend, and we’re Bea and Luka.” Her eyes drifted closed and a feather
light touch caressed her cheek.

  She moved her head and their lips met. It was a soft kiss and lasted no more than a moment, but she was content.

  “Thank you. I shall treasure your gift always.”

  “As will I.” Removing his handkerchief from his pocket, he opened it and took out a small object.

  “This is for you. While I was waiting for you, I found it at one of the merchant stalls and knew at once where it belonged.”

  He held the trinket and tied it around her wrist. Delicate bands of purple, black, and red cloth crisscrossed her wrist, attaching to a copper face etched with the letter B.

  “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

  Raising their entwined hands, he pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

  “My lady?” Her maid Harriet had found her. “It’s time to go home.”

  Bea cursed her maid’s unfortunate timing but conceded to her demands. The hour grew late, and she did not wish to land in her father’s bad graces. “Goodbye, Luka. I will see you tomorrow.”

  “Tris, I don’t know if it’s a good idea.”

  “Nevertheless, I will be there when the sun comes around again,” she said, using their familiar farewell in hopes it would soften his stance on their continued friendship. She waited with nervous expectancy for the remainder of their farewell, a tradition they had established when they both were children.

  He arose from the bench and took her hand in his. “As God wills it, so let it be.”

  Tension eased from her shoulders as he closed out their ritual, and she smiled before waving and leaving the church, her inattentive maid in tow.

  ****

  “Did you enjoy the fair, my lady?” Harriet asked as they walked past the church and to the town center.

  “It was wonderful.” She had wrapped her hands around her middle, reliving every detail of her first kiss, when she stopped and clutched her maid’s arm. “Harriet, my reticule! I left it by the church. If I leave it there, the rector will find it and Papa will know where I’ve been today.”

  “I’ll wait here, my lady, but hurry.”

  Though she couldn’t run, she did speed along the road, past the musicians, and around the church. Luka had gone, but her reticule remained where she’d left it against the bench’s leg. Thankful she had remembered, she ran toward it but stopped short.

  In a recessed alcove, Luka was pressed against the stone building. His lips, the same ones which had kissed hers moments ago, were engaged in kissing another girl.

  “Luka!” she screamed. “I’ll never forgive you!”

  “Bea!” he gasped and jumped away from the other girl, a busty, round-faced wench with fat, black ringlets. Her lips were red and swollen from too much kissing. His eyes darted back and forth, guilt rolling off him in waves. “It’s not what it looks like.”

  “It’s exactly what it looks like. You’ll pay for this, Luka Stefano! Mark my words, you’ll regret the day you met me.” On a sob, she clutched her reticule to her middle and ran away from the shadows and their heartbreaking secrets.

  Chapter 5

  Herm, Channel Islands, August 1810

  Herm’s westernmost beaches were all but deserted this late in the afternoon, shadows hugging the coast as the sun sank further on the horizon. The fishermen had returned from their day’s labors hours previous, and the men constructing the new hotel had retired an hour ago, and the muted hammering ceased. Only the miners continued their toil, and they were below the earth, unable to see Luka and what had transformed into his daily obsession.

  The waves crested high today, the white foamy peaks churning their restless dance. He might have some luck and retrieve more than broken small pieces of driftwood. Ever since the night of the explosion, he’d combed the beaches for traces of The Stallion and her cargo. Early on, waves and the sharp current had deposited sizeable detritus along miles of sandy beaches. He’d collected most of it, dragged it to a secluded bay, and burned it. He wanted no one, neither the British nor the French, to suspect the islanders of conspiring to bring down the vessel.

  He picked up a piece of driftwood and threw it on his small pile. “As if either side gives more than a passing notice to what happens here.”

  While the British controlled Herm, only Guernsey and Jersey, the two largest of the Channel Islands, were well fortified with British soldiers, garrisons, and formidable gun batteries. Herm, an island of farmers and some fishermen, received protection from Guernsey and had held no real interest to the French for much of the war. With Napoleon’s forces concentrated on the peninsula, a renewed interest in Herm’s strategic location had prompted some French naval vessels to arrive in Herm’s port, testing the British defenses. For this reason, Luka wanted all traces of The Stallion removed.

  There was another, less noble rationale motivating the removal and destruction of any remains from The Stallion. He didn’t want to be found by either the French or the British. Should either government investigate the explosion and search for salvage on the lesser islands, his life was forfeit. The British hunted him, and his recent defection from the French military ensured they searched for him, too. Had Fortier or Andres comprehended the peril in which Luka had placed his life when he urged them to leave, they’d not have gone, and he’d needed them to go. Yet his refusal to return to France and the regiment with which he was associated signed his death notice. Even though he’d promised his two clansmen General Reynard would not mourn his loss should he not return, the man was ruthless, greedy, and possessive. After all, Luka was the famed French Wolf, a mercenary who’d reputedly steal his own grandmother’s bedclothes while she lay sleeping.

  “As if the old woman doesn’t sleep with one eye open. She’d cut off my fingers before I could lift her quilt’s corner.” He chuckled, half-suspecting his grandmother of starting the rumor in the first place, but his amusement was short-lived, for he faced a serious threat to his life. The knot of tension in his chest tightened, and he laid a hand against it, rubbing the corded flesh in hopes of easing some of his burden. It never worked, and the knot grew each year, burdening his conscience the longer he played this dangerous game.

  When the war broke out, Napoleon had conscripted the horses of Luka’s family, depriving his clan of their livelihood and consigning them to near death, for without the livestock, buyers disappeared, taking with them their much-valued coin. By the end of the first winter, his family was starving. The elders had experienced hardship before, and had assured him they’d survive on their limited rations, but it was the children, their tiny pinched faces and feeble cries, that prompted him to steal for profit.

  His skills as a horse trainer transferred into a life of thievery with surprising ease. Patience, stealth, and persistence, three qualities valued by any horseman, guided him well as he contracted his first small jobs. Those early days he remained local, raiding nearby British encampments or stealing from supply carts on the road. His reputation for covert speed and discretion spread until he’d attracted the attention of General Reynard, a short-statured, beady-eyed man. The general had hired him for his exclusive use, joking Luka was much like a dog sent to fetch for him. Luka had pinned the shorter man to the ground, pressing his foot against the man’s throat, and growled. After some tense negotiations, in which the general pled for his life while threatening to take Luka’s, Luka had earned the nickname the French Wolf, a vast improvement over being called a dog.

  With a steady income, his people flourished, and no one questioned their good fortune. Much like a wolf, Luka guarded his secret, only sharing his plans with Aba, unwilling to risk any lives save his own. When the general contracted him to steal from The Stallion, Luka deviated from his usual solo recovery tasks and invited two of his clansmen to accompany him. He’d made the decision The Stallion was to be his last job. Extra help would allow him to steal more, which meant a higher commission to see to his people’s security.

  The explosion ruined his plans for long-term security, though it proved providential in othe
r ways. The general couldn’t have known about the explosion; therefore, he would have no way to confirm whether Luka was dead, relying on Andres and Fortier’s tale of what happened on the ship. Luka, who had grown to question who he was as a man, had found a way to escape the life of a thief and retire the French Wolf forever.

  He stacked the last of the driftwood onto his growing pile and returned home. Tomorrow he’d return to the beach to search again. Each day he found less and less, but the repetitive task filled his days and occupied his mind. It gave him something to do while he waited for Tris to awaken.

  Luka spied Aba standing in the doorway of the cottage, and his mouth dried.

  “Maybe today is the day after all.” Breaking into a jog, he flew across the sand, his chest light after months of worry and waiting.

  “She is awake,” Aba said as a way of greeting.

  He tried to push past his grandmother, but she did not budge. A slight breeze could carry her away, yet he, a towering oak tree of a man, could not move her. “Move out of the way. I want to see her.”

  “Luka, there is something you should know.”

  “What? Has the accident addled her? Is she dumb?” He licked his lips and peered over his grandmother’s shoulder, but it was too dark for him to see much.

  “Not exactly, my boy.”

  He grabbed her by the shoulders and set her aside. “Let me see her. This is what I have been waiting for. I must talk to her.”

  “There is much you do not know.” He ignored her, intent on the noises coming from within the sickroom.

  “Luka?” His name on her lips was music to his ears, a sweet melody he’d resigned to never hear again.