Dangerous to Don the Essence of Another Man
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Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay
Then the day came when the Trainer lost his shirt.
It was the hottest afternoon of the summer, the light wind making the heat worse.
As the pair raced their mounts, the scorching air made a second skin of their clothes.
Rough with nubs and irritating to the flesh, the Trainer scratched and pulled at the blouse glued to his trunk. He tore off the offensive garment and tucked it under the saddle flap, chuckling as the girl blushed and averted her eyes.
“I’ll race you again to the other side!” he shouted. “And this time I’ll win!”
The Trainer kicked the flanks of the colt before she could react and emerged the victor as promised.
But he didn’t notice the smock coming free from the saddle and floating along the breeze before sinking into the long grass.
An hour later he noticed its absence, but by then they were in a rush to get back to the manor. The Trainer donned a spare he kept in his rucksack and left behind a shirt drenched in his sweat.
The Sorcerer couldn’t believe his fortune.
He waited until nightfall before venturing beyond his domain to get the precious garment.
The Sorcerer had been tempted to boil it down many times over the years, but he resisted until he could finally claim the girl.
The result might have been a catastrophe.
He had never witnessed anything other than brotherly affection in the Trainer.
If that were the true measure of his sentiment, the Sorcerer would feel no desire when he took on that essence.
But his concerns were needless.
When he stepped out of the mist to meet the girl grown into a woman, he saw her through the Trainer’s eyes. Through the Trainer’s flesh he responded, yet also through his heart.
When the girl burst into tears, the Sorcerer marveled how natural it was to be tender with her.
So the Trainer did have such feelings for the girl, even when she was young.
His original intention had been to mold her into the perfect concubine, but the Sorcerer was surprised at the pleasure he took in mentoring her.
She had a most intense focus; she was intelligent with a gift for asking the right questions.
The Sorcerer could not resist such a pupil.
As the months passed, he gave her far more knowledge than he meant to, going beyond the ancient texts on carnal arts.
In the past few days, he struggled to find new lessons and realized he’d taught her everything he knew.
But he couldn’t regret that decision.
Once the years of civilized denial shed from her, unveiled was an animal magnetism unusual for women.
Her features were as savage as ever, but the ugliness now suited the girl and made her presence devastating. When she strode into his Caverns, it was with the strut of an outlaw.
The Sorcerer was overwhelmed with pride for his creation.
She was a masterpiece.
Then there was their coupling.
He had never experienced anything quite like her.
From the first night, she plunged into the realm of fantasy with breathtaking abandon.
And the pleasure that was already exquisite became indescribable when the girl showed initiative and nurtured her unique expression in the subtleties of physical love.
This was the only time a seduction borne from illusion became passion that pulsed with life of its own.
The Sorcerer cherished this chance to forget who and what he was, succumbing to the allure of being a man taking possession of his woman, only to want her more after his craving was satisfied.
No conquest ever had this effect on him.
It was dangerous to don the essence of another man.
The morning the Sorcerer saw how little was left of the ruby liquid, a melancholy stupor weighed on his limbs as he slid that vial back in the rack and chose a deep green.
He would never feel that way again once the Trainer was used up.
Yet the Sorcerer prepared his lesson with the object of introducing another lover, hoping he hadn’t waited too long.
Then his protégée was late.
By the time he heard the near silent footfall on the stairs, he was convinced she wasn’t coming.
There was no relief to his unease when he saw her.
The girl was different tonight.
She was almost beautiful with her cheeks flushed and her eyes glimmering.
And the Sorcerer sensed a current running through her so strong the air around the girl was palpating.
She was excited about something.
But the cause of her excitement had nothing to do with him or the Trainer’s essence.
The First and Most Dangerous Gamble
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Image by S. Hermann & F. Richter from Pixabay
“Now that I’ve shared with you a little something from my life,” Adrianna murmured, “I’d like it if you let me see your drawings. I’m very flattered you took such an interest.”
The Shepherd looked down, startled by the strange shapes he saw.
Adrianna was there, but not recognizable in the flurry of shapes in motion on the paper.
“Ok,” he said. “But I’m not sure you’ll like it. I can probably have a better one for you later after having some time to focus.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Adrianna replied.
Glancing to his cache of drawings, she grinned wickedly.
“By the way, I would like to see all your drawings, not just the one of me.”
The Shepherd said nothing, but scowled.
The Courtesan threw her head back and laughed when she saw his expression.
Again, the slightly masculine mannerism disconcerted the Shepherd. The familiarity of it unnerved him, as much as how unexpected it was every time she did it.
“In case you’ve forgotten, my dear Shepherd, we made an agreement to trade stories. Perhaps your drawings would be a good start to open you up.”
“You do this every night?” the Shepherd asked in an attempt to veer the conversation.
Adrianna nodded, and finished off her water.
Without warning, she took his pad with his latest sketch and spent a few moments peering at it
“This is really quite good,” she declared. “Are you sure you wish to keep drawing only as a hobby?”
The Shepherd remembered how much the Butler boasted of his mistress as a benevolent and influential patroness of the arts, and was alarmed.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
Adrianna laughed again.
“Sweet, shy Shepherd. As you wish. Please let me know if you change your mind.”
A maid appeared seemingly out of nowhere, a long fur coat draped over her arm.
The Shepherd did not hear the girl enter.
“Ah yes,” Adrianna said. “It is the cocktail hour. I don’t feel a pressing need to change for supper. Do you?”
Without waiting for an answer, the young maid stepped forward to help her mistress into her coat.
Then the Courtesan looked at the Shepherd expectantly, slowly raising her brows when he didn’t move.
The Shepherd flushed when he realized she expected him to offer his arm.
Adrianna smiled and linked her arm through his once he did.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “I think dinner promises to be quite lovely. And of course, I will entertain you with another of my stories.”
“I look forward to it,” the Shepherd said, suddenly remembering the details of the intrigue from the night before and eager to learn more.
*****
You are very fortunate, dear Shepherd.
I’ve shared this story when occasion called for it over the years, which gave me the perspective and ability to articulate all that I witnessed and felt.
At the time though, I couldn’t because I lacked the insight to understand the madness that happened. So you get to hear my perspective seasoned with the wisdom of experience.
My world blew apart and wide open during those next few months. I gained much wisdom that would serve me well.
But the most unexpected and shocking lesson was the insidious power of hatred, and the ties created from it. The blind loathing and envy I cultivated for the Patron’s Daughter had bound my soul with hers, and therefore my destiny.
I had no idea that’s what I had been doing to myself. If I had known, perhaps I would have found another release for those violent emotions.
Then again, perhaps I wouldn’t have been able to.
The Sorcerer of the Caverns must have understood this because he certainly used that to his advantage.
He was the must cunning monster I have ever known.
I had no idea how to get him what he wanted.
If you know anything about the Sorcerer, you must know he would never have wanted to seduce an ugly peasant girl named Addie.
Of course, it was the Patron’s Daughter he wanted.
Beautiful and vicious, she presented an unusual challenge for the Sorcerer.
He had always ensnared his conquests through desires that were out of reach.
The Patron’s Daughter had been indulged and pampered all of her life. Never wanting for anything, she had no yearning.
Since the Sorcerer had no way to tempt her, she would never give up her heart to satisfy a forbidden longing.
So I would have to give up mine. But only if I was able to deliver the Patron’s Daughter to the Sorcerer.
You look confused, darling Shepherd. I get ahead of myself.
Our plan was both complicated and dangerous.
I was to lure the Patron’s Daughter to the Sorcerer, so he could seduce her. After he claimed her maidenhead, he would transform me into the likeness of the Patron’s Daughter.
Except for my eyes, as I said yesterday.
But my heart would be the payment instead.
Although I was never one for sentiment, I resisted.
I didn’t understand why taking my heart was necessary since the Patron’s Daughter was the one marked by the Sorcerer, and I was risking death if anything went awry.
It was an argument I lost.
His premise was that I had the most to gain. Also, since I had been ruminating on death as a choice when we met, I had nothing to lose.
Much later, I learned that although the Sorcerer obviously savored the power that comes with a successful conquest, it was not seduction that kept him alive as centuries passed.
Feeding on the hearts of girls and young women - all of them virginal until he seduced them - was how the Sorcerer gained immortality.
Since the Patron’s Daughter could only be lured to the Sorcerer through deceit rather than her own choice, it was impossible for him to claim her heart even after he took her.
Since the Sorcerer could never have the heart of the Patron’s Daughter, he had to take mine in her place.
And I was definitely a virgin.
Oh the despair that would have followed if we had been caught!
I would have been publicly hanged, and my parents would have known nothing but disgrace for the rest of their miserable lives!
Don’t think I didn’t consider that as I made my deal with the Devil.
Carla and the Hawkish Gentleman
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Image by Yingnan Lu from Pixabay
Suddenly, I was freed from his clutches.
I didn’t see how it happened, but I heard a loud thump, and the con man lurched and his fingers released my throat.
The sudden intake of air was so intense I became dizzy and lost my balance. Rather than fall to the ground, a pair of strong hands caught me.
I knew this couldn’t be the con man from the gentle strength holding me in the middle of my back until I was steady.
I also heard the voice of fury coming from another woman, and then I heard a series of thumps.
When I could finally open my eyes, I saw Carla hitting the con man repeatedly with a long, dark cane.
“You worthless bastard! When a girl screams to let her go, you let her go!”
“This is none of your business, Carla! She owes me money, so stay out of it!”
In response, Carla whipped the cane around so the length of it careened into the con man’s torso.
He doubled over.
His rodent face went white from the pain and his lips curled back to reveal the full length of his teeth.
“You dirty whore!”
“You pathetic liar!”
The con man was stupid enough to lunge for her.
But Carla stepped aside.
Then whoever had held me up let go to grab the con man by the hair and press the muzzle of his pistol between his eyes.
The neighbor’s face turned ashen when he saw the hawkish gentleman.
“I don’t care to see a young lady attacked,” he said softly.
The con man heaved for air and pleaded in a raspy voice.
“I know this looks terrible, but please listen to me. The girl has been robbing me since she moved in. I’m only trying to get back what’s mine!”
I was so stunned I couldn’t speak to defend myself.
I was aghast when the hawkish gentleman raised his brows and brought his gun away from the brow of the con man.
Then he stepped back and turned to Carla with a sigh.
“Darling, I delighted in watching you thrash this piece of excrement with my cane. So have another go and make it count.”
With a savage grin, Carla twirled the cane before drawing it upwards with a perfect aim between the con man’s legs and the strike landed at the apex.
He made a strangled, growling sound and fell to the ground, curling into himself with his hand cupping that raw and tender place.
He glared at Carla then directed his hatred and helpless ire on me.
The hawkish gentleman raised his gun and aimed for his heart. The con man froze and whimpered.
“You are making a grave mistake, sire!”
“You really are the most laughable swindler in the Capital, aren’t you?”
“I swear to you I’m telling the truth!”
“We both know your word is worth less than nothing.”
“But sire-”
“We followed you as you followed that young lady,” the hawkish gentleman snapped. “We heard everything you said to her, and there was no mention of getting back anything that was yours.”
“You had a lot to say about what was hers,” Carla added, her voice filled with disgust. “Imbecile! You thought she was an easy mark.”
“Shut up, you filthy harlot!”
Carla raised the cane to strike the con man yet again.
It looked like she was aiming for his head, which might have killed him.
Yet the hawkish gentleman gripped the opposite end of the cane and shook his head.
“Darling Carla, I believe the young lady might need some care.”
Carla let go of the cane and came to me. She was very gentle as she felt around the side of my face where the con man had struck me.
I gasped when she touched the sore spot at my left temple, and the bolt of pain seared into my brain.
She swore under her breath.
“Do you have a headache?” she asked gently. “Dearie, is your vision blurry?”
I nodded.
“Tibodeau, I think she has a concussion!”
The hawkish gentleman looked beyond us to a kindly-looking man I hadn’t seen yet.
Nor had I seen the carriage that was less than a block away.
“Go get the Law,” he commanded.
“It would be my pleasure, sire.”
His steward turned towards the Avenue of the Theaters where the Lawmen would easily be found.
Their black uniforms with flared waistcoats stood out in the crowd of beautiful gowns in the colors of gaiety.
Somehow, the con man recovered enough that he jumped to his feet and ran.
Instead of aiming at him, the hawkish gentleman pointed his gun to the air and fired, which made my former neighbor run even faster.
As soon as he was gone, my limbs started shaking. I would have collapsed if Carla hadn’t held me up with an arm around my waist.
As lean as she was, she was strong, and I envied that. I hated being so weak and helpless.
“I don’t need to talk to the Law,” Carla said. “I don’t know dearie’s story, Tibodeau, but I suspect she wouldn’t want an interview with a Lawman either.”
“Oh dear god,” I muttered.
The blood drained from my face at the thought.
The first things the Lawmen in black would ask for were identification papers I didn’t have.
The Shepherd and the Stranger Girl
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Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay
The girl stood at the edge of his flock.
Up close, the Shepherd saw she was about his age, which caught him off guard. She still had blood caked around her mouth and chin, her skirts stained where she must have wiped her hands.
“Are you all right, Miss?” he asked, relieved he sounded calm. “May I help you?”
The girl tilted her head to one side.
“Perhaps you can, Shepherd,” she replied. “How long have you been here?”
“Not long,” he said, hoping she wouldn’t notice his trembling. “I just stopped to feed and water my flock. We have a long distance to travel tonight.”
She nodded slowly.
Then she bent down and picked up the youngest lamb, the tiny animal struggling against her. But her hold was firm and she gripped its throat with her fingers.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Please, Miss. I just want to go with my sheep.”
The girl didn’t answer right away.
His heart roared in his ears when the Shepherd stared into her eyes, chips of ice in the light of the moon.
She finally let go of the throat and stroked the lamb along its back. But she never looked away from him.
“Shepherd, come to me.”
She almost sounded gentle, but her low voice sent tremors along his flesh.
The Shepherd wondered if he’d stepped outside himself.
Part of him detached to bear witness to something that didn’t seem real, even as he pushed through his flock to go to her.
The lamb in her arms was the only thing between them when he stopped.
The girl locked the Shepherd inside her gaze and dropped the animal to the ground.
Without warning, she grabbed his shirtfront and pulled him to her, pressing her ear against his chest.
The illusion of separation disappeared and the Shepherd was back in his skin, his limbs shaking.
He’d never been this close to a woman in his life.
The softness of the girl took his breath away.
“I can feel your heart,” she said. “It’s beating really fast.”
She leaned her head back and stared up at him.
The Shepherd could neither move nor speak, trapped between the warmth of her body and the chill of her eyes.
“You’re afraid, aren’t you, Shepherd You saw me kill the Sorcerer.”
The girl paused.
“Didn’t you?”
In his mind, the Shepherd saw a shroud held out for him by the Angel of Death.
For a moment, he felt like he’d turned to stone.
Then his knees buckled. The Shepherd collapsed to the ground and started to cry.
The girl ran her fingers through his hair.
He found the gesture terrifying and soothing at once, leaving him no words to plead for mercy and his heart pounding.
The girl came down and knelt before the Shepherd, holding his face and wiping his tears.
Then she lay back upon the ground and pulled him with her, resting his head against her breast.
She kept stroking his hair, his scalp tingling from the brush of her fingers, the vibration of her voice against his cheek.
“So, tell me Shepherd, what do you feel? What do you hear?”
His heart stopped beating for an instant when he realized that all he heard inside the girl was silence.
The Shepherd pulled his head up and stared at her.
“Nothing, Miss.”
“That’s right,” she murmured. “I’m a girl who can live without her heart.”
Then she pushed him to the ground and rolled him on his back.
Nestling along his side, she laid her head on his chest and sighed, her breath seeping into him.
The Shepherd didn’t resist when the girl took his hand and brought it to his neck, pressing his fingers into the groove where his heart echoed. His pulse beat into the tips of his fingers and reverberated through him.
When the girl spoke again, her whisper felt like a caress.
“Listen to your heart,” she said.
****
The Shepherd trailed off, his eyes glazed over looking back on that long ago night.
The Wolf rested on his belly, his forelegs stretched out, blinking when the story came to its close. He shifted his weight and found his limbs were stiff, but the Shepherd remained lost in reverie.
“So then what happened?” the Wolf asked.
The Shepherd started and glanced at him with an expression of mild surprise. Then he shook his head, pausing for another moment before he spoke.
“I must have fallen asleep. Next thing I remember I woke up and she was gone.”
Of Course, That's Who She Was
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Image by Engin Akyurt from Pixabay
The girl from No Man’s Land would have looked a downtrodden prostitute in her tattered skirts were it not for her walk. Hers was not the gait of desperation. She had the long stride strut of a man.
One glimpse and his body became a traitor to him yet again, his longing for her more brutal than ever.
The Wanderer didn’t realize he was following her until a large black carriage caught her attention.
A quartet of horses pulled their burden with a high-stepping trot, the open box exposing the four noblemen inside.
The cape of one soared outside the carriage, its extravagant length sweeping along the wharf. The gentleman’s face was hidden with the likeness of a skull, and the Wanderer realized it must be All Hallows Eve. All the occupants were in costume, their faces covered in masks.
But their voices were loud, their accents rendered uncouth from drink.
The carriage stopped before the most raucous tavern on the wharf, the sounds of merrymaking ringing from inside.
The Wanderer raised his brows.
Surely the gentlemen wouldn’t dream of going inside. This was the place for those who lived and worked on the wharf, not for the guests of a fancy dress ball. But the garbled discussion about the fun that could be found on the wharf confirmed they intended to do exactly that.
The Wanderer shook his head and snorted.
The noblemen looked absurd stumbling out of the carriage, tripping over the capes cascading to their ankles. When they lifted their masks, they uncovered bloated features and bleary eyes. But the tallest of the four was the last to remove his, the grinning violet demon replaced with a handsome face.
The Wanderer immediately recognized the type of noble he resented the most.
He suspected this was a man whose pride exceeded his ability. Even his beauty betrayed that kind of vanity. Sharp cheekbones sliced the midline of his face, full lips curled in derision, his chin at a high tilt. His dark brown eyes were empty when he looked at his friends, his contempt for them thinly veiled. But he still followed them into the tavern.
The Wanderer saw the girl watching them as well.
Her eyes glittered as she stared after the billowing cape of the handsomest nobleman, her thick teeth gleaming when she smiled. She didn’t hesitate before she followed.
The Wanderer’s throat grew tight and the churning in his belly surged the taste of bitterness to his mouth.
“Go home…”
The call of his heart was endearing in its gentleness.
He tried to capture the lightness of spirit he had from his vision of going back to the village.
But the memory of the girl was seared into his flesh and the thought of her with the arrogant nobleman made him burn. The Wanderer found himself in front of the tavern before he knew where he’d gone. His stomach clenched and the throbbing of his heart was agony. He tried to will himself to turn around and go home.
Instead, he pushed through the doors.
The revelry inside knocked the wind out of him.
Seamen were everywhere, both fishermen and pirates. There were also vagabonds, conmen, craftsmen, and merchants. All of them drinking together in the riotous brotherhood of men, the only women in the tavern were serving wenches and prostitutes.
The former were comely with blouses laced up their middles, generous breasts pushed against their necklines, arms muscular from carrying mugs of ale, most holding three to a hand. Others carried snifters of high spirits, their balance impeccable as they held their trays high and pushed through the crowd. The wenches were adept at avoiding unwanted touches, leaving room for the night ladies to move in.
The prostitutes’ faces were garish from powder and rouge, their flimsy gowns cut low to the waist. They stalked for the amorous embrace, their sharp eyes prowling for the look of lust, a mouth turned down from hidden sadness, boredom crossing one face in the company of friends. Those were the signs the night ladies sought out before sidling near their men and smiling with a suggestive wink.
The Wanderer couldn’t move at first.
The shouting and singing merged into a loud buzz ringing in his ears, his nose assailed with the smells of sweat, liquor, and cheap perfume.
Then the mass of bodies became a rolling sea that drew him into its storm, and he found himself winding through the crowd.
The Wanderer was grateful nobody was in costume, for that would have been too much to withstand. He was surprised to find an empty stool at the bar. Before long, he had his seat and a frothing pint before him, leaving him free to scan the room.
The fancy dress quartet was easy to find.
The florid tavern keeper kept them separate from the mêlée, settling them at a large round table on the stage and gesturing to the prettiest of his wenches to serve them.
She seemed cheerful with her dimpled cheeks and a round face framed with copper curls. But she had a taste for the vulgar.
The noblemen roared when she pulled a match from her cleavage and struck it against her teeth to light their cigars. The stoutest of them smacked her bottom, chortling at the loathing that marred her features.
The wench made her way to the counter and waited until she was loaded with snifters and mugs. Then she disappeared with her tray into the latrine, smiling when she came out and returned to the table onstage. Her tone was playful as she urged her honored guests to throw the spirits down their throats, for there were more to come. She smirked after they drained their snifters and bowed with a low curtsey.
The Wanderer laughed with everybody else in the tavern.
But the noblemen had no idea of the crude joke played on them.
Revelers cheered the feisty wench, tossing coins on her tray and pushing notes down her cleavage. The tavern keeper waited with raised brows as she made her way through the crowd. He placed more drinks on her tray and pointed to the stage, but his severity relented with the grin he couldn’t suppress.
The wench made a show of a loud sigh with longing gaze to the latrine. But her revenge was enough and she sashayed to her premier table.
Finally, the Wanderer spotted the girl from No Man’s Land leaning against the back wall of the stage.
She grinned when she looked at the serving wench delivering the fresh round of drinks. She had appreciated the prank as much as everybody else in the tavern.
But the girl still planted herself in the line of vision of the handsome nobleman, making herself a caricature of provocation with her elbows hooked around the railing and exaggerating the arch of her back.
With her beggarly garments and disheveled hair, the pose should have been ludicrous.
At first, the Wanderer shook his head, embarrassed for her. He wasn’t surprised when the nobleman glanced at her and flicked his eyes away, his mouth curled in a sneer. He was legions above this girl in his station in life. He knew it and didn’t bother trying to hide it with genteel modesty.
But his hauteur didn’t affect the girl in the least. She continued her vigil.
The Wanderer frowned.
Her intent was clear.
But her eyes were every bit as cold staring down the handsome gentleman as when she had looked at the Wanderer. When the nobleman glanced her way again, she grinned with a hint of disdain. An expression her target recognized.
The nobleman scowled and turned away. He even made an effort to converse with his friends. But the girl had gotten under his skin. And his company grew more tedious with each round of drinks.
The Wanderer knew the handsome nobleman felt that gaze penetrating him from the tension in his back and the rise of his shoulders.
But the nobleman couldn’t resist the lure of her stare and looked back at the girl again.
Her grin had spread into a smile, her large teeth gleaming. A spark of fear lit up his dark brown eyes for a moment, and the handsome face paled.
The smirk disappeared from his face when the girl threw her head back and laughed. He turned towards his friends again, but his determination to ignore the girl didn’t last long. After a few minutes of trying to engage with the drunken louts around him, the nobleman looked back at her.
Her blue eyes glittered and she leaned her head to one side, her chin tilted in much the same way as his.
His ale suddenly distasteful to him, the Wanderer struggled to get the liquid down his throat. It wouldn’t be long before the nobleman succumbed and left his friends to go to her, his fascination more apparent each time he turned her way.
He had to hand it to the girl. He had never witnessed the arrogant seduced through insolence. But the thought of the girl with the nobleman left the Wanderer seething. His fingers were white gripping his mug, and he downed the bitter ale until there was none.
The Wanderer hadn’t noticed the drunkard slumped next to him until the other hiccoughed, the spasm jerking his elbow into the Wanderer’s side. The stranger mumbled a garbled apology, glanced at him with reddened eyes, then his head bobbed to his mug.
Irritation swelled inside the Wanderer.
The raucous noise and putrid scent of spilled ale, watching the woman he desired seduce another and being elbowed by a stranger were more than he could tolerate.
Deciding he’d had enough, he slid off his stool.
“That one’s back in town,” the drunkard muttered. “She’s the devil, she is.”
The Wanderer stopped and peered at the man slouched over his mug. He wasn’t facing the stage, but instinct told him the drunkard spoke of the girl he followed.
“Pardon me, Citizen,” he said, touching the slumped shoulder and pointing towards the stage. “Do you know that girl?”
The drunkard’s head jerked up and his eyes cleared for a moment as he looked between the Wanderer and the girl. His face was white.
“Hell no!” he shouted. “And you don’t need to know Ella Bandita either!”
The drunkard slapped him hard on the chest before slithering off his stool and weaving through the crowd, shouting at the foolhardy lust of stupid young men.
But the Wanderer hardly noticed.
The room started to spin at the sound of her name. His vision blurred and his knees buckled. The Wanderer gripped the edge of the counter to steady himself, the shaking in his thighs beyond his control.
Ella Bandita. Of course, that’s who the girl was from No Man’s Land.
The Bard’s stories meshed with images of the girl from the woods, intertwining until his mind was a kaleidoscope of memory and legend.
The Wanderer held his breath and prayed she had not heard. He looked towards the stage.
The girl was staring at him.
Even from a distance, the Wanderer saw that muscle twitching in her jaw.
The Wrath of the Courtesan
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Image by Анастасия Гепп from Pixabay
The hunt for Ella Bandita began with the women.
They raged with each new tale about the notorious seductress, these women who spent their lives caring for their beauty and enhancing their manners to appeal to the most desirable men in society.
Wives and courtesans worked hard for their pampered lives, fine gowns, and sparkling jewels. Ella Bandita was a spit in the face of their world.
Ugly in face and grubby in dress, how could this be a woman no man can resist? To be left as only shadows of their former selves once the Thief of Hearts moved on, her conquests would never be the same again.
The wrath of the women grew alongside the terror of the men.
I’ve never heard of a time when married ladies and harlots of easy living cast their rivalries aside, but they did to stand against her.
Ironically enough, the man who brought them together was more akin to a courtesan than a Patron. He was an easy conquest, hardly worth a mention if it weren’t for what happened afterwards.
He was a charmer, this man who set all the women against Ella Bandita.
He lived in the city, having arrived in society through a marriage of convenience. In some ways, the Charmer was blessed amongst fortune hunters.
His wife was lovely, with fair hair and creamy skin. Her beauty would have been almost as appealing as her generous dowry had she not been a malcontent.
Her dreary accent and petulant nature challenged his polished manners every day, and her company grated desperately on his nerves.
He hadn’t been married a year before the Charmer pursued a courtesan who was as exciting as his wife was irritating. He must have spent quite a bit of her fortune, for he stopped at nothing until he gained the favor of the most sought-after woman of her profession.
She was known as Adrianna the Beautiful.
Dark and fiery with a formidable lust, her appetite for pleasure was insatiable, her salons legendary.
Her guests were the handsomest, the wealthiest, the most powerful, and the most brilliant men in the city. She had her pick of lovers from only the best, and she was selective.
The Charmer was far beneath her usual choices, but he was witty and his courtship was relentless. He made himself irresistible enough that Adrianna allowed herself to be seduced.
But the Thief of Hearts ensnared his notice at the opera.
The Charmer was with his wife in a balcony above the stage. His mistress was also present, escorted by a handsome young prince. They sat across from the Charmer and his wife.
Adrianna even winked at her other lover when neither of their companions was looking.
He smiled and winked back just before his wife turned to him with a complaint.
Then the Charmer made his face a mask of attentive concern, caressing her hand and whispering gentle words until she was quiet.
He saw Ella Bandita as soon as he could look away, his regard drawn to the common seats on the floor where she sat. The Charmer found her gaze startling and riveting, reminding him of the way a predator stares at prey.
Then his attention was diverted when the lights faded and the velvet curtains lifted. He forgot about Ella Bandita once the performance was under, for opera was one of the few things he cherished.
The Charmer was a satisfied man, so it was surprising he fell under her spell.
He had a wealthy wife who seemed a Madonna in those blessed moments of silence, a decadent temptress for a mistress, a life of elegance and leisure. The Charmer was enjoying himself, his privilege too fresh to take for granted.
Who knows why we do the things we do?
Perhaps his wife was especially tiresome that evening, or the sight of Adrianna in a blazing red gown made the reality of what she was painfully apparent.
Maybe he sensed the boredom that would come.
All we know is when the Charmer caught sight of Ella Bandita during intermission, she had no trouble enticing him with a new game.
She met his gaze and grinned. Then she wove her way through groups of ladies and gentlemen, provoking the Charmer with brief glances behind her, eyes glittering when she smiled at him.
And he followed her, this man who had everything.
The Charmer returned to the balcony with his wife and finished the opera with her. Yet he left their bed and house late that night.
The next morning, he was found with the same witless expression and glazed eyes of her other conquests, muttering the same words as those who fell before him.
“Eh…eh…la bandita stole my heart.”
A few days later, the most exclusive courtesan in the city waited for the lover who never came. Adrianna had not heard the fate that befell the Charmer, and she was livid he dared not keep their appointment.
She had never suffered this indignity before. She was as notorious for her temper as she was renowned for her allure.
Her fury was at its peak when another courtesan came to call with the dreadful news about her favorite lover.
Then the wrath of Adrianna the Beautiful was all for Ella Bandita.
So Much For Love...
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Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay
One afternoon, the Rogue stood at the window from his bedroom, his heart aching as he watched the plain black carriage of the Duchess.
Then a movement below caught his eye.
He thought his mind was playing tricks on him when a giant gray stallion trotted down the street.
But the girl was the same, staring at him through the glass and laughing at him, her eyes shining with contempt.
He pulled the curtains to shut her out, but she had already disturbed his mood.
Instead of reminiscing on his afternoon of love, the Rogue was absorbed with an unease he’d never known, wondering how that strange girl had found him.
After that day, she was always there every time he met with the Duchess.
For the first time in his life, the Rogue felt alone. He didn’t dare confide to anyone about this, not even his most intimate friend. Seeing his nemesis after a tryst was humiliating, but pride kept him quiet.
Desperate to evade her, the Rogue started taking risks, insisting the Duchess make love to him in outrageous places. She resisted at first, only to give in to her lover’s demands, her eyes glowing from the thrill of danger.
But the girl was always the first the Rogue saw after he parted from his mistress, and there was nothing he could do about it.
As summer gave way to autumn, the Duchess announced she had a perfect solution to the dilemma of separation.
She found a private hotel and rented a suite there under an assumed name.
The Rogue knew the place well, having been there many times with other mistresses.
For the first time, he felt empty when they made love, wondering if he’d been in these same rooms with another married woman. He tried to push such disturbing thoughts from his mind.
He loved the Duchess. She loved him. Destiny was cruel.
The Rogue held onto these beliefs while he dressed and his mistress prepared her toilette before returning to her husband. He took leave with adieus of tenderness, but his step was heavy when he left.
The girl was outside the hotel.
She must have stolen some new clothes. Her riding breeches were too big, but otherwise sound. Her creamy blouse was also large, but pristine with sleeves billowing down her arms. The front dipped into her chest, displaying the curve of her long throat.
She turned to him with another insolent smile.
The Rogue decided he’d had enough and stopped his horse near hers.
Being close to her made him uncomfortable.
During his long career, he seduced the most desirable ladies in society with their soft skin and sweet perfumes.
This girl had an animal scent that shocked his senses.
The Rogue had never been afraid of a woman before, but he was unnerved waiting for her to move or speak.
But she just stared at him until he broke the silence.
“Why are you following me?” he asked.
“Because I can,” she said.
“As refreshing as it is to have a woman giving chase, I would prefer you stop.”
“Would you, now?”
Her command of his language was impressive, her accent so light he wasn’t certain which country she came from. Her face made that impossible to discern.
The Rogue couldn’t stop staring at her.
She brought to mind adventures he had in seaside towns, going into pubs filled with angry ruffians, men who spoke with their fists and felt more at ease in war than peace. If such a man were to be made into a woman, she would be this girl with her brutal features.
Her figure was too slender to be fashionable, but her form appealed to him nonetheless. There was strength in her subtle curves, the shadow of breasts teasing behind the cream of her blouse, her thighs’ long muscles hugging the flanks of her mount.
When he met her gaze again, he was embarrassed to see the return of her insolent smile.
“Do you like what you see?” she asked.
He was startled at first, but shrugged it off.
“I do. But to be honest, you’re not my taste.”
She smiled and looked into the windows of the hotel. When she spoke again, her voice was taunting.
“That which is savory today,” she said, “will taste bitter tomorrow.”
“What?”
“Do you really believe you’re the first?”
The meaning behind her hint sunk its claws into the Rogue, and he was relieved to feel wrath surging within him. Ire liberated him from the fear that had gripped him when he approached her, and it engulfed him further with each stroke of conversation.
“What are you trying to say?”
“What do you think?” She nodded to the apartments he just left. “Her husband knows all about you, just like he’s known about the others.”
“You filthy liar!”
“Don’t pretend to be such a naïf, or were you so easily duped? A man like you!”
The Rogue found it impossible to believe such a girl could have any information about the Duchess.
“How do you know?” he asked.
“I was acquainted with one of her former lovers.”
“And how did you manage a connection like that?”
“The same way I made yours.”
For months, her presence had been a torment. Every time he saw the girl after a rendezvous, the Rogue was reminded he had lost his freedom.
“What do you want from me?”
“Nothing you make good use of, Rogue,” the girl chuckled. “But that’s not my point. It is I who has what you want, and I’m here for you.”
“I want you to stop following me,” he said. “If I ever see you again I will report you to an asylum. And I’ll make certain you stay locked up.”
“As you wish,” she said. “But you will want to see me again.”
The girl kicked her mount into a canter and left. The Rogue stared down the avenue long after she disappeared from view.
He met with his mistress once more after that day.
He started avoiding places where it was likely he would see the Duke and his wife.
For the first time, the Duchess had to call for her lover, sending a note on rose-colored paper with her perfume a signature.
The Rogue came to her.
But he looked into her sparkling brown eyes and remembered the Duchess loved theatre more than opera.
Then all he saw was a gifted actress playing her favorite role.
He looked around the suite of a hotel that accommodated the indiscretions of the noble, and knew the Duchess had taken other lovers in these rooms.
He could almost hear her crying the same words to another in the same anguished rapture that had overcome his better sense.
He realized he’d been seduced into a fantasy of love in much the same manner he lured his debutantes hungry for an intrigue.
The Rogue was appalled to recognize how much the Duchess was his kindred spirit.
His refined sense of irony made it possible to leave the room with dignity, but he turned back when he opened the door.
The Duchess was flushed and her eyes narrowed. At least she hadn’t foreseen her abandonment.
The Rogue closed the door behind him, and the only illusion he ever cherished in his life was destroyed.
Outside the hotel, he looked up and down the street, and realized he was searching for his nemesis.
She was good for her word, but he found no relief in her absence.
The Consequences of Cunning
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Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay