Scoundrel

by Zoë Archer

  The ice of reality cooled the heat of desire. She considered the island, then asked, “Is this the dolphin-shaped island?”

  He noted her shift in mood, adjusted his own. “So Kallas says.”

  “It is almost as small as Delos,” Kallas said. He nodded toward the island. “A mile across, four miles long. We are approaching the curve of its tail.”

  “That is still a considerable amount of ground to cover,” Athena said, coming up on deck. “The stream could be anywhere, and time is scarce.” London could have sworn she saw a blush in the witch’s dusky cheek when she looked at the captain.

  A muscle twitched in his jaw. “And that is why, Lady Witch,” he answered, “I will put in near the village. The villagers will tell us.”

  “If they are willing to talk, and if they speak truthfully.”

  The captain scowled, which seemed to be his perpetual expression whenever Athena Galanos was nearby. “We islanders are honest, forthright people. Unlike mainlanders.”

  “Shall I be forthright with you now?” Athena asked sweetly.

  “Now’s a good time for a lesson on bringing in a boat, Captain,” Bennett interjected.

  It was enough of a distraction. Kallas issued orders to all of them, even Athena. London’s hands were much healed, thanks to Athena’s poultice, so she was able to help adjust the sails without pain. She looked down at her hands. They were already quite different than they had been only a few days ago—stronger, more resilient.

  At the wheel, Kallas called out commands while he guided the boat into the shallows of a bay. Satisfied with their position, he gave Bennett the helm and dropped anchor. The caique was too large to attempt a beach landing, yet it was small enough that they didn’t need to row into shore. The sails were lowered.

  “Where is the village?” Bennett asked.

  “Just beyond those rocks.” Kallas pointed to an outcropping bristling with pines. “I warn you, ‘village’ is too grand a word for that place. But you should find people willing to help.”

  “I’m not worried,” Bennett assured him. “I’ve a way with people.”

  London didn’t doubt that. If the village or hamlet or collection of shacks housed even one woman, there would be no shortage of assistance. Perhaps Dionysian offerings of wine or olives would be made. Bennett went to the bow, where the boat was shallowest, then climbed over the rail and jumped down into the surf. The water licked at his hips.

  London went to the bow, as well, and stepped over the rail, preparing to also jump into the water, but Bennett held out his arms to her. “Ferry service,” he said.

  She smiled down at him. “What’s the charge?”

  “Three kisses. Except you, Kallas.”

  “Four kisses?” asked the captain.

  Athena smothered a laugh.

  “How about this?” offered Bennett. “I pay you in bottles of ouzo to stay on the boat. And let’s you and I never speak of kissing again.”

  “Deal.”

  “And am I offered the same rate to come to shore?” Athena asked.

  Bennett shook his head. “You stay with the boat.” The witch started to object, but Bennett cut her off. “If the Heirs come, we’ll need you ready.”

  She acquiesced, not looking particularly pleased with the idea of being alone again with Nikos Kallas.

  “I’ll teach you my favorite shanty about the sea nymph and the fisherman,” Kallas said.

  Deciding it was an opportune time to get off the boat, London lowered herself into Bennett’s waiting arms, wrapping her own around his neck. His hold was strong and sure, his body solidly muscled. The stance brought their faces close together. She was mesmerized by the black fringe of his eyelashes, the planes of his face shaded with a few days’ worth of stubble, the sensual perfection of his mouth.

  “Will you claim your fee now?” she murmured.

  “Later.” He tore his gaze from her own mouth. “I start collecting now, the whole day’s lost.”

  “Please go,” Athena grumbled. “Or I will surrender my nonexistent breakfast.”

  Bennett strode through the shallow water, carrying London. Fish the size of hairpins darted around his boots, and she smiled at them. The world was a jewelbox she had just opened.

  “This would be a lovely place to swim,” she said.

  He stopped walking and closed his eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Just enjoying the mental image. You. Wet.” A wicked smile curved his mouth.

  London swatted his shoulder, even though she wanted to put her lips to that wicked smile. “Mr. Ferryman, this is not the time to entertain salacious imaginings.”

  He opened his eyes, sultry pools of azure. “It’s always the time for salacious imaginings. Even better for salacious doings.” But he continued on through the water until they reached the beach, where he set her lightly on her feet.

  To reach the village, they had to climb a small rocky hill. While Bennett took the hill easily in long, limber strides, London struggled. Even though the hem of the dress had been shortened, she scrambled for footing. She felt herself a long way from the tame seaside at Brighton, hunting for shells or strolling on the West Pier. Bennett slowed his ascent to give her a supportive hand, helping guide her up the hill. Even in the heat of the morning, the feel of his large hand enfolding hers made her shiver with awareness.

  A rough collection of low white buildings clustered together at the top of the hill, surrounding a single well. They resembled a child’s blocks left behind by a forgetful titan. A tiny blue-domed church met the village’s spiritual needs, and in its shade lounged a sleepy orange cat, unconcerned with godly matters. The cat paid no mind to the goats ambling through the cluster of buildings, nor did it bother to look up when Bennett and London walked past. In a doorway sat an old woman watching them as she shelled beans. A child’s laugh twinkled behind her.

  “You came on the caique,” said a man’s voice.

  London turned to see a craggy-faced man emerge from a doorway, dressed in a mix of modern and traditional clothing. He regarded them impassively.

  “We’re seeking fresh water,” Bennett said. “For our voyage.”

  The man eyed the revolver on Bennett’s belt. “Dangerous voyage.”

  “They always are.”

  The man tilted his head toward the well. “That’s been dry for years, otherwise you would be welcome to it.”

  A goat meandered over and began nibbling on London’s skirt. She tried to tug the fabric from its mouth, but it was a tenacious beast.

  “I have heard tell that there is a stream on this island,” Bennett said, “its water of surpassing sweetness.”

  With a proud nod, the man said, “It is our blessing. Without it, we would have dried up and blown away like dead leaves. No matter how little rain we get, the stream always runs, always sings for us.”

  London and Bennett shared a quick glance. So the singing stream was here! She made herself appear calm, when inside, her heart pounded with excitement. The ruins were leading them to the Source.

  “It would be an honor to see this stream,” said Bennett, “perhaps even drink from it.”

  “We have money,” London said, then realized too late that she had not a single drachma or even shilling. Everything had been left behind at the encampment at Delos. And even if she did still have money, she would never spend it, knowing that it came from the Heirs’ work.

  Fortunately, the man waved off her offer. “There’s no need for money here. What would we buy?” He pointed behind the church. “If you follow this hill seventy paces, you will find a grove of olive trees. Go through there, head east, and then you will be in a valley. At the bottom of the valley is the stream. Here.” He handed two earthenware jugs to Bennett. “You cannot carry water in your cupped hands.”

  “Many thanks,” said Bennett. “It’s true, what’s said about the generosity of islanders.”

  “Just the same,” said the man with a wink, “I wouldn
’t mind going to the mainland every now and then. These accursed goats have eaten every blanket I own.”

  The goat at London’s skirt bleated in protest. She took advantage of the moment to snatch her skirt free from its relentless teeth. She sighed in frustration. Athena would get her dress back with several goat-chewed holes in it.

  Wishing them well, the man turned and went back into his playing die of a house.

  Following the villager’s instructions, London and Bennett passed the church and continued on through a field of scrub and pink wildflowers. On land, the sun bounced off the ground, baking the air. A trickle of perspiration ran between London’s breasts and filmed her back. A swim did sound lovely, but she knew they hadn’t the time to indulge. Always at the back of her mind was her father, the look of shock and disbelief as she sailed away. He would come for her—whether as a self-perceived rescuer or an agent of vengeance, she did not know, but she had observed him over the course of her whole life and knew that his determination was singular, unbending. No man clung more tenaciously to his ideals and goals than Joseph Edgeworth.

  London tripped over a rock, but Bennett caught her while juggling the clay pitchers. “Blast,” she muttered. “I can’t move in a skirt.”

  Bennett righted her on her feet. “I’ll carry you.”

  She shook her head. “And the pitchers? All the way to the stream? No. I have to walk on my own. But,” she added, moving forward, “I can see why the reformers advocate trousers for women. It’s impossible to do anything with a dress tangling in one’s legs.”

  “You’re becoming positively radical.”

  “It’s the dissipated company I keep.”

  “Not dissipated. Liberated.”

  The villager had spoken true. Bennett and London soon found themselves within a grove of olive trees. Some of the trees were young and slim, but others twisted with generations of growth, their gnarled branches reaching up to the sky in an ancient dance. Silver leaves cast patches of shadow upon the rolling earth and rustled in the breeze. London trailed her hand along the pitted bark of an older tree, almost a honeycomb of holes. She pulled back in surprise when a small owl hooted irritably from its burrow.

  “Athena’s keeping an eye on us.” Bennett drew her onward.

  “The Blades of the Rose allow women in their ranks,” London said. “The Heirs do not.”

  He nodded. “We’re unchivalrous cads who throw our women in front of cannon fire.”

  “Is it wrong to protect women?”

  “No man wants to see a woman hurt. But if a woman wants to fight for a cause, that’s her choice.”

  Choice. London mulled over the word as she and Bennett walked through the natural cathedral of olive trees. She’d never had choice in her life before. Everyone made decisions for her. As a child, she was subject to the rule of her parents, nurse, and governess. When she came of age, her mother supervised all aspects of her entrance into society—the gowns she wore, which parties she attended, the young ladies London was to befriend. London’s suitors, too, were all carefully selected. She was told when Lawrence approached her father, requesting permission to make an offer, told that she was to accept him. London did as she was bid and married the man of her parents’ choosing. Then Lawrence held dominion over her, and she kept house according to his wishes. Even when he died, London’s mother directed her on the proper means of mourning. Only where linguistics were concerned did London have agency, and that was done in secret, so it held little weight.

  Now London had choice in abundance, and her head spun with possibility. She could do anything, go anywhere. If, somehow, she and the Blades managed to find and protect the Greek Fire Source, then she would find herself completely at liberty. She had no idea what to do.

  London glanced over at Bennett striding behind her. He was alternately gilded in sunlight and dusted with violet shade as they moved under the trees’ canopy. He swung the pitchers easily, keeping in time with his steps. A beautiful man. Who desired her. Who offered her choice. It would be foolish, very foolish, to lose her heart to him, to lean on him. Easy to do this, but unwise.

  She was only just learning how to stand on her own, so she must keep herself whole. She had tried to love Lawrence. That had proved to be a failure. Given choice, she must now act wisely, especially when faced with such a temptation as Bennett Day. Her entire life, men controlled her. Her father. Lawrence. Her father, again. She wondered if she could let Bennett into her life and maintain command over herself. Now that she had it, she would not let it go. Yet she also wanted him.

  Twigs snapped, snaring her attention. She brought herself up short when a group of five young men emerged from the shade of the trees, blocking the path. They had sullen faces and greedy eyes, raking over London with predatory interest and looking at Bennett with undisguised aggression.

  London glanced over at Bennett. He stood almost casually, light and easy on his feet, arms loose at his sides. She gulped, trying to hide her own apprehension. But she was no Blade of the Rose, had not a lifetime of experience facing danger, and could not quite suppress a shiver of fear.

  “Mainlanders,” one of the youths said in Greek, his lip curled in derision.

  Another took in Bennett’s well-tailored, English clothing, and sneered, “Foreigners.”

  The first young man swaggered forward, pushing his cap back on his head. The leader. He ambled toward Bennett, his chest puffed. “What do you want here, outsider?”

  “Water.” Bennett wore a pleasant half smile, as if discussing horse racing.

  “Plenty of water in the sea,” the leader said, and his companions sniggered at his wit.

  Bennett still smiled. “To drink.” He gestured east, still holding the pitcher. “We were told there’s a good stream nearby. A man in the village said we were welcome to it.”

  “Kostas.” The leader spat upon the ground. “Foolish old man. Letting English outsiders stomp all over our home, taking what they want.”

  “Islanders are known for their hospitality,” Bennett said mildly.

  The youths barked their laughter, harsh and scornful. They were young, barely out of their teens, hardly able to shave, but brawny, full of undirected energy in their small island home. London tried to calculate if she could outrun them. Not likely.

  She did her best to remain motionless, praying for invisibility. She knew what happened to women.

  “Islanders aren’t stupid,” a third young man jeered. “We don’t give things away for free.”

  The leader nodded. “There’s always a price.” He abruptly wheeled from Bennett to London. She tried not to edge backward, but it was difficult to keep her feet rooted. “This pretty songbird will do nicely.” He reached for her, leering.

  “You don’t want to do that.” Bennett’s voice was icy steel.

  The leader’s hand dropped, and he shuffled back, then tried to cover his move with bravado. “Too scrawny for my tastes,” he smirked. He turned to Bennett. “But you’ll pay us a toll. We’ll take whatever you’ve got. Drachmae, pounds, marks.”

  Bennett said, “No payment for something that costs you nothing.”

  The leader’s jaw tightened. “Where’s your respect, outsider?”

  “Saved for those who deserve it,” Bennett said pleasantly. “Not bored little boys.”

  The leader made to lunge at Bennett, but one of the youths, gangly and only just on the other side of childhood, yelped, “He’s got a gun, Vasilis.”

  “This?” Bennett set one of the pitchers down and unholstered his revolver. The gang scuttled back. “Men don’t need guns.” He opened the cylinder, shook out the bullets, put them in his jacket pocket, then reholstered his weapon. He picked up the pitcher. Neither of his hands were free to either make a fist or load his revolver.

  London gaped at him. “What are you doing?” she hissed in English.

  He had the temerity to wink at her. She decided to kill him later, if they survived this encounter.

  “Showing
off for your woman?” the leader scoffed.

  Bennett said, “She knows me better than that. I’ve nothing to prove.”

  “Only that you bleed like everyone else.” The leader charged at Bennett. His companions cheered.

  She barely saw it. Bennett’s left arm swung out, practiced, smooth. The pitcher he held slammed into the leader’s head, sending the youth reeling sideways from the blow.

  Bennett glanced at the pitcher. “Didn’t break,” he murmured. “Good craftsmanship.”

  The cheering died, but two of the young men, seeing their leader stagger, surged forward. Animal rage, long pent up, finally released, and they had fists ready.

  Bennett stepped forward as if to meet them in a dance. He jabbed the bottom of a pitcher into one attacker’s stomach. The youth doubled over, gasping, retching. At nearly the same moment, Bennett trapped the ankle of the other attacker between his own shins and gave a little twist. Down went the youth, sprawling in the dust.

  The fourth young man immediately leapt onto Bennett, wrapping tough arms around him in a parody of an embrace as the fifth youth grabbed Bennett’s knees and pulled. Everyone toppled back together. London winced at the sound of them hitting the ground. The pitchers rolled out of Bennett’s hands as his back met a large rock half-buried in the dirt.

  Seeing their opportunity, the others collected themselves enough to pile onto Bennett like massing jackals. All London could see were limbs flailing, punching.

  She had to do something. London whirled around, searching, and her eyes fell on a thick fallen branch. It was heavy in her arms, but she hefted it as fast as she was able. She staggered over and brought it down with a slam onto the shoulders of one youth. He howled in pain. Then turned and wrested the branch from her. The rough bark scraped her hands as it flew from her grip.

  She had no weapon.

  So she started kicking him.

  He tried to shield himself, but she wouldn’t allow him any protection. Anything undefended, she kicked, wishing she had stouter boots and not ones of dainty kidskin. When he grabbed at her leg, she aimed with her heel and brought it square into his face. A gruesome, satisfying crunch and spatter of red upon his upper lip. He rolled over, cradling his nose and moaning.