Silver-Tongued Temptress

by Sara Ackerman

  “All right. Are you overly warm? Feverish, maybe? Your voice is hoarse, and your cheeks are flushed.”

  He cleared his throat and said, “Stop worrying. I’m fine. Hold still so I can undo these buttons.” As the fabric parted to reveal her back, his fingers caressed the exposed flesh, and gooseflesh dotted her skin. He finished undoing the last button, and she shrugged her shoulders out of her gown, letting the navy, woolen fabric hang about her waist.

  “You’re not wearing a shift,” he said as he ran the back of his hand across the bare expanse of unclothed flesh.

  “The underskirts are bulky enough. Though I don’t enjoy the extra layer, it’s practical in the cold. Something had to go, so my clothes were no longer smothering me.” She pushed the dress over her hips and it pooled around her feet. The dress joined the pile on the chair.

  “How I admire your practical streak.” His eyes glittered in the flickering candlelight, and she frowned, placing her hand over his forehead.

  “Are you sure you’re not ill? Maybe I should get Cook.” She walked the short distance to her wardrobe and pulled out a dressing gown. Returning to the bed, she straightened the covers over his torso, and frowned. “She’ll have an herbal remedy for you, and—”

  Luka grabbed the tail of her sash and yanked her gown open. With a tug, the fabric slid from her arms to land in a heap at her feet. “I don’t want Cook. I am not ill. If I’m flushed, it’s from helping you undress and imagining the curve of your breast filling my hand. Get under the covers, Tris.”

  Her mouth rounded to mirror the widened surprise of her eyes, but she slid under the covers. He blew out the candle and pulled her against his side, her backside nestling in the hollow made by his bent legs. A rigid hardness pressed against her bottom, and she moaned.

  “Thank God that didn’t fall off in the cold.”

  His muffled chuckle vibrated along her flesh where his mouth nuzzled against the tender skin between her neck and shoulder. “You worried for nothing.”

  “It seems I did. Perhaps had I been bolder I might have asked.”

  “Imagine how the conversation would have gone. ‘Luka, have your manly bits shriveled off in the cold, by chance?’ No, I much prefer you discovered it for yourself. Your throaty moan was reward enough for my patience.” He cupped her breast in his hand, and she arched into his touch, pushing her bottom to nestle more firmly against his rigid hardness.

  This time he groaned and increased the pressure on her erect nipple. “Your patience?” she panted. “You kept me in a heightened state of desire on Herm for months, refusing each of my advances. My patience should be commended, not yours.”

  “As if I would take advantage of an injured woman. You had no memories and would have grown to hate me.” He flipped to his back, and she draped over his chest, tracing her fingers along the outline of his ribs, around his navel, and to the pulsing heat which was all him.

  “You’re injured,” she said, giving him a gentle squeeze. She spread hot kisses over his chest and across his abdomen, the air expelling from his lungs in short bursts the lower her mouth trailed. “Maybe we shouldn’t be doing this. I’d hate to bring you dishonor.”

  He tensed and muttered a curse as she kissed him on his throbbing tip. “Dishonor me. Please. I’m begging you.”

  She gave him another squeeze before releasing him. Draping a leg across his belly, she straddled his hips and tilted her pelvis until he was nestled firmly within her. “As you wish.”

  ****

  The church bells pealed the hour, and Bea roused from her cozy nest atop Luka’s chest. She shifted off and cuddled close to his side. “It’s midnight,” she said, poking him in the side. “Happy Christmas, Luka.”

  “Hmm?” He wrapped an arm about her waist and buried his cold nose behind her ear. “You’re warm, the perfect gift on a cold night.”

  “I’ve never been anyone’s perfect gift before. What must I do?”

  “It’s not hard. You must be naked and in my bed.”

  “Are you there with me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Consider me gift-wrapped and ready for you to find on Christmas morning.”

  He trailed his fingers over her belly and across her hips to nestle in the warm valley between her thighs. Nibbling her ear, he shifted his weight until he trapped her beneath him. “But I opened my gift last night. Now what will be waiting for me?”

  She gripped his head, which had come to nestle on her chest, his roaming mouth stopping to lave attention on each tender breast. “I can dress. You can unwrap me all over again.”

  He trailed his fingers over her sides with feathery strokes and growled, biting her ear. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “You’ll be sad on Christmas day with no gifts to open.”

  He nudged her thighs apart and slid into her waiting body. “I’ll survive,” he said, his movements smooth and languid. “Happy Christmas, Tris.”

  “Happy Christmas, Luka.”

  Chapter 31

  Paris, France, December 1810

  Christmas morning, especially a Christmas morning after gifting herself to Luka three times, came too early. Snuggled in by his side under the warm covers, the insistent knocking on the bedroom door did not fully penetrate her sleepy fog. When the timid knocking increased to a steady pounding, Bea awakened, groaned, and shuffled to the door.

  “Bea,” Amy hissed. “Open the door. It’s important.”

  “This better be life-or-death important, Amy. The cock hasn’t even crowed.” Unlocking the door, she glared at Amy. The child pulled her to the hallway, shoving a sealed letter in her hands. “This came for you. The messenger said it was urgent.”

  Turning the letter over, she saw Thomas’s seal staring back at her, and she ripped through the wax. The letter was brief. Four words were written under a series of scrawled directions. “I’ve found him. ~Thomas”

  “They’ve found him, Amy. I must go,” she said. “Thank you. This means everything to me.” She pressed a swift kiss to the girl’s cheek. “Tell Madame where I am going. I’ll leave a letter for Luka and be back as soon as I can.”

  After shooing Amy from the hall, Bea hurried through her toilette and penned a brief letter to Luka. She kissed him goodbye, noted his cheek was like ice, and added more wood to the fire, watching to see the flames caught before grabbing her cloak and racing down the stairs.

  The directions Thomas had sent her were easy to follow, but the snow doubled the time it took to reach the squalid bar where Thomas had spotted Michelson. By the time she trudged the twelve blocks through the ankle-high snow, the sun had risen and she feared she’d lost her chance to confront him. Rats like Michelson didn’t stay in one place for any length of time. Thomas’s tall figure, hunched against the cold, reassured her, and she sped the remaining distance, arriving winded, flushed, and wet.

  “I didn’t know if you’d come,” he said in lieu of a greeting.

  “We spent years to reach this moment, Thomas. Let’s finish it.”

  “It’s good to see you, Beatrice. You look wonderful.”

  “You’re seeing things. The cold has reddened my cheeks, and my nose is dripping. My hair is an absolute fright.” She held the limp curls and laughed.

  “No, you’re younger, as if a huge weight has been lifted. You look happy.”

  “I am,” she said.

  “Do you have your knives? The situation within might get dangerous.”

  “I do.”

  While he knocked on the door, she came to a decision. His gruff concern for her was endearing, and though they were no longer intimate, responsibility and affection for Thomas outweighed the voice in her head telling her to be quiet. “Thomas, there’s something I have to tell you. Michelson, your father, he wants you.”

  “He’s been weaving his web for too long; I’m aware of his desires.”

  “Before he jumped ship, he said he knew where my son is, and he’d tell me if I brought you to him. I believe he
wants me to bring you to him bound and gagged. At least that’s the impression he gave.”

  “What the—”

  “It was never an option,” she said, her words a tangled rush in her haste to reassure him she’d not betray his trust. “I wanted you to know his plans before we go in. I’ll get the information without handing you over.”

  His voice was flat when he said, “He’s lying to you.”

  “Even if he is, I have to find out.”

  “I know. Quiet, now. Someone is approaching.” The door opened a sliver, and two beady, black eyes peered through the slit.

  “What do you want?”

  Thomas inserted his foot in the small opening and used his massive shoulders to wedge his way through the portal. “To come in. Your hospitality is appreciated,” he said to the small, greasy man cowering in the foyer.

  “You’ve no business here. Leave before I get it in my head to be inhospitable.”

  “Your bravery is admirable, barkeep, but we do have business here. Take us to the one called Michelson.”

  “Nobody here by such a name,” the small man said, his squinty eyes shifting about the room. Bea stepped forward to apply some persuasive pressure to the man’s tender regions when Thomas strode forward, grabbed the man’s hand, and twisted. A cracking crunch followed by an agonized scream set her teeth on edge. “You have three other appendages, sir. Unless you relish the idea of losing the ability to serve spirits and walk, I suggest you quit lying and take us to Michelson. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Y-yes,” the man whispered, his chin touching his chest. Gray hair obscured the man’s face as he whispered, “This way.” They followed the whimpering man past the bar, through an unlit hallway, and through a low hanging arch. They found themselves in a small stone room used to house barrels of wine.

  “Don’t toy with me, old man.”

  “P-please wait,” he said, and removed a stack of wine barrels, empty judging by the ease with which he lowered them, and gestured to a narrow wooden door. “Through there. He locks the door from the inside.”

  “You have our thanks. Now leave,” Thomas said, ignoring the man, the weight of his angry stare centered on the wooden door. Raising his leg, he kicked the plank. Two thuds later, the wooden portal lay in pieces on the stone floor.

  “So you’ve found me, have you, son?” a weak voice called from across the room. Scanning the interior, Bea saw a small, windowless room with enough space for a narrow bed, a table, and a chair. There was no fire, and the sole source of light came from the candles burning on the table. She shivered, and rubbed her arms through her thick, woolen coat.

  “It took a while, I admit, but we both know I’m smarter than you.”

  “Who’s with you? Is that Westby’s git?”

  “Her name is Beatrice,” Thomas said through clenched teeth.

  “So it is. You lived,” he said, addressing her instead of Thomas.

  “As did you,” she said.

  “A little worse off than you, I see. Lost my foot from the stab wound you gave me.”

  “We’re even. The railing fell on my leg and burned it.”

  “Hardly even, but let’s not quibble over details.” He coughed, a harsh, barking rasp, and clutched his chest, wheezing until the attack passed. “I’m dying,” he said by way of explanation. “The stab wound near killed me, and after my foot was sawed off, infection set in. Sapped my strength and weakened me something fierce. For months I lay at death’s door, but knowing you hunted me is what kept me from dying.”

  “How touching, Michelson, but—”

  His face twisted, an evil sneer turning his lips, tightening the scar on his face until it was a jagged red streak against his pallid complexion. “I wanted to see your face, you see, when I told you I had lied. You failed, Beatrice Westby, and should have killed me when you had the chance.”

  “No,” she whispered, her knees weakening as her vision blurred. “You know. You have to know.”

  “Beatrice, steady,” Thomas warned.

  “The time for steady has passed, Thomas,” she said. Unsheathing her knives, she closed the distance between her and Michelson, pressing the older man against the stone wall with her knife’s blade. He laughed, a gruesome mockery of mirth. “Perhaps I misjudged you. Maybe you do have the grit to do as I ask.”

  “Make sense, old man, before I slice your throat,” she growled.

  “Kill me. Put me out of my misery.”

  “Happily.” The knife pressed against the soft tissue of the man’s neck. This time when he laughed, it was genuine.

  “Don’t you want to know why?”

  “He’s tricking you, Beatrice,” Thomas warned. “End this now, and we can be gone.”

  “No. I want his explanation. Why now, when your death could have been a painless sleep aboard The Stallion? Why kill you now and not before?”

  “I’m dying.”

  “Wrong answer.”

  “Hear me out. I’ve been ill, and no doctor, not in England or here on the Continent, can fix me. The end is near, or so I’ve been told multiple times, but it will not be a quick death. I will linger in pain for weeks, if not months, my mind deteriorating with each passing day until I am more animal than man. I had hope of survival when I made our bargain, a doctor in southern France who had treated someone with my disease and prolonged their life by years. After meeting with him, he’s assured me of my fate. I want to die with some dignity.”

  “If what you say is true, why should I believe you?”

  “Because I lied. Your son lives.”

  “This is another trick. Don’t listen to him. Kill him.”

  “Quiet, Thomas. Let me think.”

  “What reason could I have to lie now? My fatal weakness has been exposed. I’ve asked you to kill me. There is nothing left with which I can bargain. You hold my fate in your hands. I can die a dignified death at your hand, and you will know where your son is.”

  She eased some of the pressure from the man’s neck and stepped back. “What proof do I have you tell the truth?”

  “You have none, Beatrice. Come on, let’s go.” Thomas tugged on her arm. “I was wrong to ask you to kill him. He’s a mad old man who enjoys playing with people’s emotions.”

  “His name is Gabriel. He was born in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and one, on a cold winter’s day. Skin the color of caramel and hair as dark as night, he resembled your Rom lover, didn’t he?”

  “This is all nonsense,” Thomas said. “Your father could have shared information about the child with him.”

  “But your father didn’t know the Cook delivered your son, did he? He also didn’t know your dead husband took your sleeping child from your arms and ordered the Cook to kill him.”

  “What? Impossible, she never would have—”

  “She didn’t. Whatever happened to your cook? Curious, isn’t it, how she disappeared soon after your son died?”

  She rubbed her temples. The news Michelson shared was causing her head to ache. “I never noticed, for I was grief-stricken. Much slipped my attention.”

  “Enough, Father,” Thomas said. “Stop playing with her.”

  “I’m not, son. I’m telling her what happened to her child. Surely every mother has a right to know where her child is.”

  “Where? Where is he?”

  “The Cook fled your home with the child and begged for help from the one person who would not refuse her. He gave her a job on his country estate. He provided for the child and has seen to his education.”

  “Who? Who did this?”

  “Your father. Gabriel Westby has been living on Westby Estate in York since shortly after his birth.”

  “Impossible. My father…he wouldn’t have kept this from me.”

  “He would if your dead husband were alive and he was trying to protect the child.”

  “I never returned home after George died. Thomas, you told me not to look back. I wanted to return. I asked you to take me home, but y
ou refused. You said it wasn’t good for me. Why—” She shook her head and faced Michelson. “How do you know all this?”

  The grin which graced his face was a true horror, and she flinched, backing farther away from the man and his madness. “Thomas, of course. Didn’t you know? He and your husband were good friends.”

  “T-Thomas?” she asked. “Is this true?”

  “Beatrice, I can explain,” he said.

  “Explain what? How you kept my child from me? How you watched me suffer needlessly for years while you knew all along?”

  “Listen. You mourned Luka’s defection almost as much as the child’s death. If you saw the child, you’d be reminded of him and continue to grieve. My concern was for you.”

  “Stop lying to me! Had you considered my needs at all, you’d not have behaved so selfishly, Thomas. No more lies, no more manipulations. Whatever love I carried for you is gone. I can’t even look at you.”

  She threw a knife at each of their feet and turned toward the door. “He’s yours, Michelson, unless your son gets to you first.”

  Thomas audibly inhaled, a sharp whistle cutting through the palpable tension. “Beatrice, you don’t mean this. We’ve chased him for years. Don’t you wish to end this, help me wipe him from the face of the earth?”

  She turned back. “Do your own dirty work, Wickes.” She spat on the ground, the urge to plunge the knife into the man’s breast as strong as the day she’d killed her husband.

  Clenching her fists, she addressed the man who had caused so much strife for her and her family. “I’ve fulfilled our original agreement, Michelson, and brought you your son. I will not end your life, for a swift death is a mercy reserved for those who attained some dignity and honor in life. You had neither.” She gestured to the knife lying on the ground. “Kill yourself and end your own misery, or die as a raving madman. As for him, I care not. Do whatever you wish to him.” Turning on her heel, she walked the short distance to the door, pausing when Michelson’s oily voice skittered across her spine.

  “But my dear,” he chuckled. “I already did.”

  He was a cruel man, but so was his son. The two deserved each other, and she half hoped they’d both meet their maker this day. Leaving the two men to their fate, she gave a terse nod, ran from the room, and burst from the sordid den of evil out into the cold, pristine morning. Gulping huge lungfuls of frigid air, she trudged back home, hot, angry tears dampening her cheeks.