A Shimmer of Silk Read online

  Evernight Publishing

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2013 Raven McAllan

  ISBN: 978-1-77130-251-7

  Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs

  Editor: Melissa Hosack

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To Doris. No one could have a better friend. Thanks D, without you this book would not have been written.

  To Paul for putting up with me, it can't be easy.

  A SHIMMER OF SILK

  The House on

  Silk Street

  , 2

  Raven McAllan

  Copyright © 2013

  Chapter One

  Deborah adjusted her mask and checked that her costume was in place. The tiny strips of silver silk both covered and disclosed her body, slithering and sliding over her contours. Only she knew how little they revealed, and how much they did not.

  "You have the salve and the unguent?" she asked. "The cloths?" Try as she might to stop it, her voice quivered.

  Luc smiled grimly as he showed her the jars, and the large soft linen torn into useful sized strips.

  "Then let us go. The customers are waiting." A steady rumble of excited male voices could be heard from the other side of the curtain.

  He took her arm. "Deborah, why do you do it, if you hate it so? I see it in your eyes, the contempt and, yes, the fear? Why put yourself through this? Come with me. We can go to France, go anywhere you like, and put this behind us. Put everything from us, be free."

  She took his face in her hands and kissed him. There was no passion; it was a kiss for a brother not a lover.

  “Luc, dear Luc, we are on a mission. We cannot give up. Too much is at stake. You need to find your lover. And I? I need to find my soul." With a smile, she felt sure did not reach her eyes, she walked in front of the curtain. Did she even know what her soul was? She thought not. Those awful, fearful years in France had shown her that.

  The cheers were tumultuous. With a slight bow she acknowledged them before she held her hands out for silence. Although her English was fluent, her accent was as pure as any gentleman present. She knew her audience. They expected a Frenchwoman, therefore that was what they would get.

  "My dear Messieurs." Her accent was put on; the tremor in her voice was not.

  "Kind sirs, we pray for your indulgence. Monsieur Jean-Luc needs silence for his act, and I? I Jeanne-Louise? I need your encouragement. What we do is dangerous, life threatening even, and I for one do not want to end my days just yet. Nor before…" She smiled and raised one eyebrow in an exaggerated manner. The audience went wild. Behind the curtain, Luc gave her a positive wave; they were eating out of her hands.

  Deborah held those hands up to quell the noise. The room fell silent, apart from the shuffle of feet, a cough, and a quip, quickly smothered. It was as if she then had gagged each and every one of the fifty or so gentlemen present. She nodded.

  "So, first, may I introduce to you to Monsieur Jean-Luc Dalmain?" It wasn't his name, however, that didn't matter. It worked.

  Luc walked toward her, his throwing knives in his hand. Without breaking his step he launched one, then the other, toward her. Deborah turned, and caught each of them by the hilt as they came within her arms length, and threw them back.

  The room, the audience, any noise faded away. All she could hear was the soft whoosh, as the knives flew toward her.

  She bent and spun round. The silver ties of her dress shimmered as they twisted out around her. With a glint and a flash, they were chopped ever shorter with delicate precision by the flying knives, before she once more grabbed the hilts and returned them.

  The cheers erupted, but still Deborah ignored the noise. Minus them, their performance wouldn't work; with them, the adrenalin kicked in, was acknowledged, and then ruthlessly suppressed. Nothing must penetrate their concentration.

  Without breaking the routine, Deborah walked backwards and stood against a backboard. With a brief nod to show Luc she was ready, she stretched her arms and legs out, and steadied herself.

  The knives flew to enclose her in a cocoon of metal. One above her head. One under each arm. Another between her legs, so so close to her cunt, that, if she had been aware, she would have absorbed and accepted the universal gasp of the audience. Yet some more pierced the wood around her feet. Luc was a master. Each knife landed exactly where he intended. In fact, Deborah thought, as she followed their routine in her mind, he could probably do it all blindfold, not just the finale. She moved her hips and the remains of the silken ties shimmered and swirled around her body.

  She narrowed her eyes, as with a flourish, Luc prepared his final knife.

  The audience was quiet now; the proverbial pin could have been dropped and heard. Something in the air perhaps warned them that this was special and any wrong move would be the last move she would ever make.

  The knife left Luc's hand and sped toward her. Aimed at her heart.

  With what she knew must look like a casual insouciance, Deborah waited until it was mere inches from her body, and moved her hand. To once more grab the hilt, turn it, and stab it into the floor.

  Then the noise began.

  She leaned back using the board to hold herself upright. As usual, reaction set in, and she forced herself not to shake. The last knife, as it moved ever nearer, brought back memories she would prefer not to have. Only she and Luc knew how she would not sleep that night, but instead be held, while she shuddered and sobbed.

  Luc walked across the stage and took her hand. "All right?" he asked quietly. "One gesture of acknowledgement, Deb, just one, tonight. Then we go."

  She shook her head, an infinitesimal movement that would go unnoticed by anyone other than Luc. "We take our break and continue. We are professional in our own way. Use the time as you need. Come let's acknowledge them, do our encore and rest for a while."

  With a smile she knew didn't reach her eyes, she walked with him to the front of the stage and curtsied. The cheers and applause should have been balm to her soul, but they hardly registered. Deborah focused on what was to happen next.

  As the cheers subsided, she spoke. If anything the French accent was even more pronounced. "Messieurs, you are most kind. So for you we do one encore before we have our interval." She walked once more to the backboard and this time fastened her legs with some of the silken ties that were so recently part of her outfit. Luc did the same to her hands and set the board spinning.

  This was the only time Deborah closed her eyes. She trusted Luc. He knew exactly how fast the board spun, and when, and where to throw. If he got it wrong…she could do nothing to help herself. Deborah had decided when they first began the act it was best not to be aware. With the ease of long practice, she regulated her breathing, and made sure she didn't move.

  The first thud made her jump, the rest she ignored. Would tonight be the night she died? Or the night she did indeed find her soul?

  ****

  The picture she made spread-eagled and tied, made Oliver Craster, Lord Callender ruthlessly suppress his bourgeoning cock. He wanted her, true, but tied willing and ready for all he chose to do to her. Not while some erstwhile swain spun her round and threw knives in her vicinity. Oliver knew without a doubt he would have her somehow, willing, able, and screaming his name while he withh
eld her orgasm until she was writhing and begging for relief. Any knives would be wielded as he chose, and she accepted, and relished. He cared not if his wants and needs were not normal to the majority, they were him; and without them he was nothing.

  Mademoiselle Jeanne–Louise—and if that was her true name he'd give up his town house to the poor—had his body on high alert, his skin tingling, and a river of flames filling his veins and demanding a climax to douse them. He could only but hope he was able to give his body its completion.

  Did she even realize his interest? He thought not. Why would she? He had watched her several times; each one aroused him more until he knew this night was when he struck. Mademoiselle Whoever would be his. He bent his head toward the man standing next to him.

  "Felton, she is mine. Make sure no one else approaches her. I will abide by the rules but try for her I must."

  Felton, Lord Dalrey nodded. "I know how the 'must' works. Do you wish me to reserve a room?"

  Oliver smirked. "If your lady hears you speak so, I daresay your life would be made miserable for a sennight. I cannot believe my lady Araminta lets you away with such sentiments. No I use my own, it has all I need."

  Felton shook his head. "It's true, I would not even try. Never, unless I reserve the room for us could I say such things. But relay that and not only will I be bollock-less, so will you. Ara would never let me forget the hearsay of stating such. We are a partnership, but sometimes one needs to take charge. I will instruct the staff to prepare your room for you from this instant. Your usual accompaniments?"

  Oliver nodded. Felton was perhaps the only person who truly understood his darkness and need for things not considered by most to be normal. For himself, he truly wondered what normal was. In the house on

  Silk Street

  so much was considered necessary to be happy, that what the ton thought as normal, and acceptable, was perhaps a little less than needed. Many demanded admittance. Few succeeded. Even less had their own apartments there such as he did.

  "I have a desire to stretch her as far as I can, Felton. Why her I do not know, but, Mademoiselle Jeanne–Louise as she calls herself, will be mine. As I desire."

  Felton looked at him, and he saw both curiosity and sympathy in his eyes.

  "And if she declines?"

  That did not bear thinking about.

  "Then I acquiesce with, I hope, good grace. But I admit, I pray she will not, gad, she can not. After her second act, she will be mine. I take precedence over any others."

  "I will make sure of that, but if she refuses you, I am pleased you say you abide by that. 'Tis the rules of the house. I would hate to lose such an old friend and valid customer."

  Oliver raised an eyebrow. "Do you think that likely?"

  Felton laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "There is always a first time, my friend. I will not condone any entertainer being harassed by a member or guest. She intimated no associations, as did her partner. Nevertheless I informed her all requests would be passed to them, for them to accept or decline as they chose. That is sacrosanct. As it is you, and I trust you, I will relay your request to the lady, and attach my pledge of openness honestly and truth. However, you are on your honor here. Ara would withhold my delights for a sennight or more if she knew." His eyes twinkled and Oliver smirked. He was perhaps one of the few who knew how Ara and Felton came together and meshed so perfectly.

  "I trust you will not be bereft of your conjugal rights, or delights. I will be all that is necessary."

  "Then my money is on you. Shall we drink or dice?"

  "Dice, I need a clear head."

  He had one. An hour later he once more stood in the theatre, several hundred pounds better off. Neither he nor Felton had any need to scrimp and their dicing was always for high stakes, and with side bets. Felton would admit those to Ara, his wife, and suffer the consequences of that, Oliver had no doubt. The couple loved to the highest degree, and both enjoyed a lifestyle Oliver envied. If only he could find someone to complete him in that way.

  The orchestra, specially chosen for their ability to create exceptional music and to keep to a gagging order, began to play softly, and his body tightened. Something was about to happen. Up until that moment, Oliver would have scoffed at the idea he was spiritual or fanciful, but now he was not so sure. His body was tight, his skin tingled, and his nerves throbbed. The lights seemed sharper, his senses heightened to such a degree he thought he could hear the blood coursing through his veins. For the first time ever, he could not dismiss his thoughts as fanciful. He knew, tonight would be the turning point of his life. The definitive moment of his life so far, the start of his life to follow.

  The music came to a crescendo with a flourish. The candles were doused except for those around the stage. The air stood still. He didn't even laugh at his fanciful notions.

  The curtains opened. What he saw made him more aware of anyone, ever in his life. It took his breath away, made his muscles clench, and his cock seep pre cum as if there was no tomorrow.

  Chapter Two

  Deborah checked her props one last time and touched Luc on the shoulder. "All is fine. Let's do it, get it over, and leave. I'm weary and ready to rest for a while. Before…" She hesitated. "Well, just before."

  Luc's lips curved into a facsimile of a smile. "As you say. I have places to go and people to…well I cannot say see, but perhaps regard."

  Her pulse jumped. "You mean?"

  He shook his head. "I mean no more than that. Don't get your hopes up, love; it is a thin lead at best and probably not even that. I wish to scrutinize some people, check their movements, and understand their lives. Then, perhaps, I'll have a better idea how to proceed. But now." He held his hand high, and she did the same, to hit his palm. "Let's show them."

  Deborah nodded. She would not question him; he would tell her all in his own time. They had searched too long to jeopardize anything. The music swelled, slowed, and stopped. Her cue. She walked slowly onto the stage and gave the sign for the curtains to rise. Her stomach churned and her skin crawled. The next twenty minutes would tax her to the extreme, make her sweat, shake, and ultimately be sick. It had to be the last time; she would listen to Luc and his voice of reason. They had amassed enough money, it was time to stop. She could no longer cope.

  The drapes parted, and she switched into entertainer mode. Even though she didn't look at Luc, she knew he would be the same. It was their job, no more no less.

  "Now," she said, so softly only Luc would hear. Her mouth hardly moved—it would be no aid to a lip reader—and took the vial onto the end of her tongue. Luc lit a spill from one of the candles. She opened her mouth, let him slowly move the spill ever closer to her mouth, until the heat seared her lip, and then with a whoosh, the vial ignited and a sheet of flame spilled out and shot forwards. In a smooth well-rehearsed movement, Luc held a candle in the inferno, until it lit. Then he set it in the candelabrum placed on the stage for that purpose.

  With one corner of her mind she registered the shouts, the applause, and the acclaim. With another she forced her agony down with a ruthless determination. Fire, hellfire filled her thoughts with no sense of where it came from. Images of flames, screams, dancing figures, shouts of exultation vied with each other and pounded her brain. She shuddered and closed her mind. There were more tricks to suffer. A second candle followed the third and another, until seven flickering flames highlighted the stage, and a brazier of coals glowed brightly.

  Deborah knew she was good at fire play. As a fire-eater she excelled but she hated it. So much of what she did brought back her past, that mist-shrouded scary childhood, running from she knew not what, entertaining those who she feared. She abhorred that. The sounds and smells of the liquid used to create the fire, the scent of scorched flesh, the tainted sweat of those who crowded close to look and hope for injury. The soldiers who looked on, staring at the young child, those groping hands… She shook and her world spun.

  "Deb!" Luc's voice was harsh. Sh
e blinked and re-focused. It was over.

  "I'm fine." She turned and accepted the applause. "Now, sirs." She spoke above the roar. "We need an aide. You, sir…" Ah why had she chosen him? Indeed why change their routine and ask for help, it was not their usual way.

  The gentleman in question had a gleam in his eye she mistrusted. He seemed to be sizing her up for dinner. Or sex. Where did that sentiment come from? It was too late to change her mind. He came forward and bowed.

  "Oliver Craster at your service, mademoiselle."

  She might have known. His reputation went before him. Deborah pushed away the thoughts of the politely couched demands presented to her earlier. It seemed her attempt to show she could not be coerced was thwarted by her subconscious, else why decide to ask for help and then chose him?

  He bent his head so only she heard, and spoke in rapid, colloquial French.

  "In every way, I am your servant. To fill you, fuck you, and stretch you to a degree you knew not possible. To hear you sigh, cry, and experience le petite mort by my hands, mouth, and cock. To listen to sweet words from your mouth only I will hear in such a way. When you submit and agree by saying yes My Lord."

  If she hadn't been so fluent she would be flummoxed. So much of that tongue she had trained herself to forget. As it was she was pushed to her limits. How dare he?

  "Oh I dare. No, you did not speak. I saw it in your eyes. You need a man, my dear. One who tests you, pushes you, and dominates you. One who shows you what you are capable of. Now smile, your audience awaits."

  Smile? She wanted to scream and shout. Nevertheless she did as he asked. No he does not ask, he commands. Why, when normally she would cower at such a tone, was her body diffused with heat and her quim wet and throbbing?

  Across the stage she saw Luc watching them, his eyes wary, his body alert for any trouble. She smiled at him. She hoped it was good enough to reassure him, and turned to the now quiet audience. Show time.