Silver-Tongued Temptress

by Sara Ackerman

  Unable to bear his own company, he made his way to a small pub, needing a drink to drown out the discordant mutterings of his mind. At the Gilded Peacock, he shoved aside the massive oak door and slumped in the last unoccupied chair by the bar. As well as being the town pub, it also served a reasonable meal, and many tradesmen took their midday meal here. Today, the crowd even included ladies, though to call them such was a bit of a stretch.

  Old and weathered, they were dressed in vibrant homespun garments and were clucking like a pair of hens, their loud laughter testament to how freely they had imbibed of the pub’s specialty ale. If he weren’t mistaken, one held a fat cigar between her bony fingers. It was this woman who caused the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end. Her raspy cackle, shrewd stare, and wiry gray hair reminded him of the old crones from Macbeth, and he couldn’t suppress the shudder which licked the length of his spine. He’d never before wished women weren’t allowed in men’s establishments, but he’d never encountered such contrary females who were content to drink and smoke like any man. Shrugging off his discomfort, he signaled for the barkeep and resolved to pay the women no mind.

  Soon a glass filled with amber liquid appeared before him.

  “Leave it,” he said to the barkeep, indicating the near empty bottle of whisky the other man held in his hand. He nursed his drink and reclined in his chair, his long legs crossed out in front of him. His shoulders slumped in resignation as he swirled the golden liquid in his cup, contemplating his new orders.

  Though the explosion which had killed Beatrice presumably also had killed Henry Michelson, the notorious smuggler, his superiors at the War Office weren’t convinced he was dead. Since the night of Bea’s disappearance, field officers had reported seeing Michelson in northern France and Paris. As an agent, and one familiar with Michelson, his organization, and his movements, Thomas was ordered to travel to France and to verify the authenticity of these claims.

  Nothing would give him greater satisfaction than for the rumors to be true, so he could rid the world of the man responsible for so much death and heartache. Michelson had plagued his life for too many years. It was time for him to die, and as Michelson’s bastard, he’d decided he’d deliver the final blow.

  Tension gathered in his shoulders, and he pushed aside the unease which accompanied needless violence, forcing himself to relax, a difficult feat when the women two tables over had resumed their obnoxious cackling. The urge to throttle them into silence was strong, and almost negated his vow to never harm a woman. Disgust curled his lips, and he pushed his glass and bottle away. Too much drink and not enough food had soured both his stomach and his mood. Drunkenness was tolerable if the drunkard was affable. Thomas was not, and the last time he had over-imbibed, he’d come close to shaking some sense into Beatrice.

  “The daft woman. As if she can dismiss me from her life with placid ease. The next time I see her, she and I are going to have a long talk about the state of our relationship. No more pushing me aside. She’s going to be mine. If she’s alive.” His fingers itched and grabbed the half-empty tumbler of whisky. He swallowed and finished the bottle, his burst of bravado fading as he recalled she was most likely dead.

  His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since early morning. Dejected, drunk, and now famished, Thomas stood on shaky legs and weaved his way among the tables, eager to go home and eat. His cook undoubtedly had something prepared for him, something, he hoped, to rival the enticing aromas of his companions’ meals in the small pub. He settled his account with the barkeep, and as he bid the owner a good afternoon, the wiry-haired woman’s jarring, raspy voice penetrated his inebriated fog and jolted him to soberness.

  “Pulled her out of the water almost ten weeks ago. She was nigh on dead when my grandson fished her out. Stabbed in the chest, leg a mangled mass of scorched flesh, but I managed to pull her through,” the cigar-smoking woman said to her companion.

  “Where is she now? Did she return to Guernsey when your grandson brought you?” the woman’s companion asked.

  “No, I left her on Herm with my grandson.”

  Thomas didn’t hear what else the woman said, his mind consumed by the possibility Beatrice and this poor, wounded woman on Herm were one and the same. In his single-minded pursuit to find Beatrice, he had never even considered Herm. Of course. Herm! The current could have easily carried her east instead of to Guernsey, despite the bigger island’s proximity to the explosion.

  The urge to kick himself for failing to consider the possibility almost outweighed his desire to leave and sail to Herm this instant. With renewed hope, he calculated how long it would take him to row to Herm if he left now. He was so lost in his planning, he missed the speculative gleam in the old woman’s eyes as he hurried out of the bar.

  Chapter 16

  Reading, England, May 1801

  Bea’s head pounded and light blinded her. Fatigue bound her limbs to her side, and she was unable to wiggle her fingers, let alone raise her arms to shield her eyes from the light.

  “Drink this.”

  A welcome coolness rested on her lips as tepid liquid dribbled between them, though most of it ran over her chin and pooled onto her neck. She whimpered, now noticing the parched condition of her mouth and throat. “More.”

  An arm came around her head and lifted. The cup returned, and this time, she concentrated on the uncooperative muscles in her mouth and jaw, commanding them to tighten and drink. She was rewarded when most of the liquid slid down her throat, the rest slipping out the corners of her mouth. Exhausted, her head lolled, and the strong support lowered her the remaining distance to the awaiting pillow. “Thank you.”

  “Can you look at me?” a soft voice asked.

  “Too bright.” Padded feet walked away from her, and she heard the heavy snap of fabric falling in place. Darkness descended and banished the bright glare which had frozen her eyelids into immobility. They fluttered open.

  Nausea roiled in her stomach, and she snapped her lids closed. “The room is spinning.” Bile rose in her throat, and she swallowed, forcing herself to remain calm.

  A sharp pain lanced her side, and she winced. “Why does it hurt to breathe?”

  She heard a rasp and a snap. A whiff of sulfur teased her nostrils. Panic lodged in her throat as hazy images of pain resurfaced. This smell she knew. Once it had been a source of comfort. Now it was a potent warning of future pain.

  “Hush, child,” the voice soothed, patting her on the arm. “I lit a candle. Its flame is tiny and will not hurt you. Open your eyes and see.”

  Her head hurt too much to shake her refusal, and something about this voice brooked no argument. Though the words were calm and meant to comfort her, she caught the underlying order in the quiet command. Unwilling to provoke the steel underneath the silk, she obeyed. She caught a fleeting image of a tiny fire-flame and a concerned face before the room spun again.

  “Keep those eyes open. Focus on the flame. All else will fade from view if you but focus on the flame.”

  As hypnotic as the flame, so, too, did the woman’s voice captivate. Weak and enfeebled as Bea was, she was helpless but to obey. There was something entrancing about the dancing orb as it shimmied and twisted in the air. Even behind her lids, the flame flickered, and within its pulsing, life-giving rhythm, she relaxed.

  “Gack!”

  Plump fingers pried at each eyelid in turn, disrupting her constrained calm, and she was forced to watch, helpless, as the writhing orb came ever nearer. Her chest tightened again, and her legs twitched in a restless, age-old dance, transmitting the urgency to flee, to escape the pain she knew the flame possessed.

  “Hold still. I’m almost done.” With a final look, the old woman retreated and took the flame away. Bea relaxed, her shoulders slumping in relief.

  “Where am I?”

  “You’re at Sir Wickes’s country home, my lady. In Reading.”

  “Sir Wickes?”

  “Aye, lass. He’s the one wh
ich found you after the horrible accident.”

  Bea remembered. “In the kitchen.” Pooling blood…her maid’s frantic screams…the knowledge her own death was imminent… The memories resurfaced so vividly panic rose and swelled again.

  “How long since I’ve been here?” she asked.

  “You’ve been asleep about two days, my lady. Sir Wickes brought you from London on Monday, and I’ve been tending to you since then.”

  “Who are you?”

  The other woman moved about the room, lighting several more candles. When she returned to the bed, Bea saw a kind, middle-aged face framed by graying auburn hair. The candles cast a soft glow in the room and wreathed the efficient woman in a saintly glow. She was an angel, though of death or life remained to be seen. Bea hadn’t decided if living was preferable to the blessed oblivion of death.

  “I’m Mrs. Smith, Sir Wickes’s housekeeper. My father was the local doctor, and he took me on his rounds. Taught me everything he knew,” she said, unmistakable pride coloring her words.

  Though indebtedness of any kind chafed, she was alive because of this woman’s skilled hands. “Thank you.” She was alive, yet much remained unclear. Someone had taken her away from the horrible house and nursed her back to health, but for what reason? To be hanged? Her throat ached, and she swallowed to keep those vile tears at bay. Her resolve was no match for fatigue and fear. What have I done?

  Restless fingers curled in the bedclothes as she remembered how they had curled around the knife’s wooden handle she had plunged into her husband’s stomach. Her own stomach churned, and bile rose to coat her throat. She had killed her husband was what she’d done.

  “I know it isn’t easy, child.” The healer’s gentle touch as she wiped away the lone tear startled Bea from the spiraling descent to madness. Gentle kindness, not pity, greeted her panicked gaze. She had expected pity, had been on the receiving end of such looks for the endless eighteen months of her marriage.

  Marriage. More like a prison sentence. Fear licked up her spine, and she shuddered, pulling the blankets closer to chase away the memories of those horrid months.

  Servants who had heard her screams late at night could scarcely meet her gaze the next morning, and those who did managed guilt-ridden sympathy at best. She had long since developed an immunity to such comfort, yet pity, no matter how undesirable, would not have caused her to sob in earnest.

  “There, there, my lady.” Mrs. Smith sat on the bed. “It wasn’t right what he did to you. He’s gone now, and you’re safe. Sir Wickes won’t let anything happen to you.”

  “But Mrs. Smith, I don’t know a Sir Wickes. How do I know he’s not a former companion of my husband? How can I be sure I’m safe?”

  The woman clucked her tongue and took Bea’s hand in her own. “Oh, you poor dear, I didn’t know you had no acquaintance with the master. No wonder you’re shaking so.”

  “Who is he? Please, Mrs. Smith, is he kind?”

  “I suppose it has been many years since last we met,” a deep voice said.

  Mrs. Smith dropped Bea’s hand and stood. “There’s the master now, my lady. I’m sure you’d like to make his acquaintance again. Can you brave a little light if I reopen the curtain? The sky has darkened a bit.”

  Bea turned her head into the pillow and listened as muted footsteps, now two sets, moved about the room. Once again there was a heavy snap of fabric as Mrs. Smith pulled back the curtains, and Bea flinched when the light streamed into the room. The housekeeper had been right. Clouds had rolled in to darken the sky, allowing muted light to illuminate her sickbed room. Her vision adjusted to the brighter interior, and she concentrated on her clutched hands until the room came into focus. Once the room stopped spinning and her vision cleared, she looked away from the knotted piles of bone and flesh clutched on her stomach to examine her room.

  A soft blanket of white wool draped over her torso and legs, tucking into the base of her bed where a sleek, polished footboard jutted past her feet. Next to her lay a small cot piled with blankets. Her nurse must have been sleeping there. Pale, eggshell-blue papered walls had colorful landscapes hung at varying intervals on three sides, and a bank of windows comprised the wall opposite her bed, flanked by heavy, dark-blue curtains. The sky had darkened even further in the time it took to explore the room, and she was able to see much better in the softened light. It was a well-appointed room, and judging by the solid furniture, tasteful decorations, and carpeted floors, Sir Wickes, whoever he was, didn’t lack for coin.

  He, along with the door, was on the one side she had yet to inspect. Though he had said not a word, she knew he was waiting for her to complete her survey of the room before speaking. It’s now or never. She had suspected before looking he’d be large. His presence by her side radiated power, yet even this knowledge had not prepared her for the man himself.

  Sir Wickes was huge. Tall-statured and broad-shouldered, the man towered above Mrs. Smith. Intelligent gray eyes held her own, though she wasn’t fooled by the complacent smile on his face. This man was dangerous, and panic replaced the fragile toehold she had gained to remain calm.

  Mrs. Smith stood by the man smiling at her, oblivious to the power radiating from him. Bea tried to warn the older woman, to plead with her to run, but her words were trapped and no sound emerged from between her open lips. She was helpless but to stare at the two, and pray no lasting harm would come to either of them.

  “There, Mr. Wickes. I told you she would awaken today, and with color in her cheeks, too. Why, my lady, you seem even better now than when you first awakened. I’ll run to the kitchen and bring a tray now you are awake. I won’t be but a moment.” With a swish of her skirts, Mrs. Smith turned and left.

  Bea had a vague notion the housekeeper had left the room but was too busy tensing her leg muscles, to see if she had enough energy to run, to pay heed to the gentle woman’s comings and goings.

  “You do remember me,” Mr. Wickes said.

  “You knew my husband,” she whispered, fear hoarsening her words. “You were friends.” Bea inched away from the towering man and teetered on the edge of the bed. One foot snaked out from underneath the blanket and rested on the carpeted floor. She balanced her weight on her bent leg and calculated the distance to the door.

  “Acquaintances, yes. Never friends. We had limited business dealings together, nothing more.” Mr. Wickes walked to the other side of the bed and readjusted Bea so she was once again lying in the middle of the bed. He sat beside her and cradled her head in one hand.

  “How did you…what are you…” He’d been silent and stealthy, surprising for one so large, yet his presence by her side confirmed she was far weaker than she’d imagined. She had not even noticed him walking around the bed until he was next to her. He sat on the bed, and his weight on the mattress pulled the blanket tight over her legs, confining them into immobility. Weak as she was, he’d trapped her, and there was no place for her to hide.

  Quite simply, Sir Wickes overwhelmed her.

  “Here, drink this.” He held up a glass Mrs. Smith had placed on the nightstand on her lips, but she set her lips into a mulish pout. “Drink,” he ordered. Terrified of his booming voice and his large stature, she obeyed.

  After he was satisfied she had drunk enough, she pulled the covers to her chin and resisted the urge to sleep. “What are you going to do with me?” Exhaustion weighted her limbs and eyelids, numbing her to all else save slumber’s beckoning pull. She stopped struggling, yawned, and closed her eyes. Before oblivion claimed her, she heard his soft reply.

  “You’ve lost your way, my lady. I’m going to help you find it again.”

  Chapter 17

  Herm, Channel Islands, September 1810

  Thomas had found her once when she needed him. He’d do it again. An optimistic deception but necessary to bolster his faltering strength. For hours he’d rowed, impatience causing him to act with uncharacteristic rashness. The possibility Beatrice was on Herm had spurred him to action
, and he had taken a small schooner out, refusing even to wait until the evening’s tide, when the promise of a helpful breeze and rocking waves would have sped along his journey.

  The island was a speck in the distance, though each time he rested his arms and looked behind him it grew in size the longer he rowed, the jagged shoreline becoming clearer and more distinct with each sure stroke through the water. He gritted his teeth as raw skin chafed with the constant friction of his palm against the wooden oars, but he pulled on.

  Sun-gilded waves beckoned, and the temptation to take a quick dip to cool off and ease his aching muscles threatened to overwhelm his sense of duty to complete his mission and find Beatrice.

  “Liar,” he snorted. “Beatrice has never been a mission, not since the day I found her among the carnage of Darimple’s madness.”

  She’d filled a part of his life he’d ignored for so long he’d forgotten it existed. Even now, many years after her dependence on him had faded, he craved her—her wit and humor, her smiles and companionship—they were as necessary to his survival as nourishment or sleep.

  To stop searching was to admit she was gone. For as long as he rowed and continued to look, Beatrice lived.

  A splash, followed by a feminine squeal, alerted him to the presence of another in the warm, September water. He was closer to the island than he had calculated. Nostalgia, transporting him many years into the past, had occupied his mind and distracted him from his approach to the island. With renewed vigor, he pulled harder through the water, squinting through the fading rays of daylight to see where the sound came from. A blurry silhouette, bobbing in the water, stared back.

  His vision adjusted to the light and to the mysterious female splashing out of sight. He was able to make out the sandy beach and massive, rugged rock outcroppings jutting in the water. It was by one of these immense boulders where he saw her, frolicking in the waves.

  She was nude, or at least he supposed she was, for she kept to the rock’s lengthening shadows and remained underwater save for her head. There were moments she popped above the water and he spied expanses of naked skin marred by sodden, snake-like tresses, almost black in the fading light.