Wicked lessons with the coutesan

Who is she?

*Oliver*

Shoving back the gruesome thoughts that thrive among my horrid memories, I focus on her. The trail is muddy and slick even for my wolf. Scrambling along it, I lose my footing time and again. But finally, I reach the narrow shore that the sea is striving to capture.

Again, lightning flashes, serving as a beacon to direct me toward her. I rush over, change and drop to my knees beside the inert form. Gently I roll her over. She wears little more than a chemise and drawers. Placing my hand on her ribs, I feel the movement of her drawing in air as well as her almost violent shivering.

Not dead, not dead. Thank the Goddess.

Slowly, gingerly, my fingers brushing lightly over her cold skin, I sweep aside her hair to reveal her pale sand-dotted face. "Miss? Madam?"

Nothing. No response. Not even a whisper of a stirring.

My curse rivals the storm in its intensity. Using the lightenings as my guide, with an impartiality I've been forced to master on another night such as this, I sweep one hand over her, searching for wounds, signs of bleeding. I can detect a few scratches and dark splotches that probably signal the beginning of bruises. What concerns me the most, however, is that she is as frigid as a block of ice.

A small she-wolf, she isn't going to survive much longer if I don't get her warm. I shrug out of my greatcoat and wrap it around her as though she is a gift from the Fates who could easily break if not handled with care. I fear that somewhere she is indeed broken, and I simply can't determine where precisely she might be hurt.

In spite of her drenched undergarments, I easily lift her into my arms, her head lolling into the nook of my shoulder, as if that part of me had been designed specifically for her. I would prefer to keep her positioned like that so she might be a bit more comfortable, but I need to be able to carry the lantern I left up the trail. Therefore, I maneuver her until she is draped over my shoulder, her backside resting beside my head.

I shove myself, with a great deal of effort, to my feet. I stagger, catch my balance. I straighten further against the blinding onslaught of the storm.

The path I followed to get to her is slick with mud. However, in the opposite direction is another trail, rocky and firmer, that leads up to the residence. I will have steadier footing along that route, even if it is somewhat slippery. I want to ensure I won't drop my precious cargo.

How she came to be in so few garments is a bit puzzling. Perhaps she sensed that the ship was not destined to reach land and had unburdened herself of anything that would have prevented her from doing the same. I can't imagine a she-wolf of quality being so bold or practical. Heaven forfend, they should be caught not properly attired… regardless of any precarious circumstances that required not being so. While something about her teases at the edge of my memory, I can't recall meeting her at a ball or any other Societal affair. Which means she is, in all likelihood, not a she-wolf of the highest caliber.

Was she some man's fancy piece, fallen from his yacht? Being engaged in a bit of naughtiness might explain her reduction in clothing. But the mystery of her is for sorting another time.

It worries me that she is exceptionally quiet and inert, that my uneven and jarring movements over the rough terrain do nothing to bring her out of her lethargic state. I've seen people who haven't moved because of the sudden shock of the situation. I've known some to survive catastrophe only to succumb to death a few days later. Whether from disbelief, fright, or sorrow.

The mind, I am discovering, can be a powerful influence over the body. But I will do all in my power, limited though it is, to ensure she doesn’t die.

Finally, the soft, welcoming glow from the windows of my ancestors’ fortification comes into view. According to family legend, ages ago, this isle served as the first defense against any invaders. Later, a lookout spot so smugglers… who used the coves and caves on the distant shore… could be warned with torches lit on high when trouble was arriving via ships.

Not everything in which my forebears engaged fell within the boundaries of the law. My family’s estate edges up against the sea, a few miles across the water from this narrow strip of land that my ancestors long ago claimed. On a clear night, I can see a faint glow from their far-off manor that occupies the top of a rise. On a moonless night, when smugglers usually deal with their contraband, they would have easily seen flames flickering from lighted torches atop the walls of a walkway that stretches between the towers of my present dwelling.

I know that to be true, because it is how I communicate with my family. But not tonight. Tonight, the storm will not allow unprotected torches to remain alight. Not that I would summon my family to traverse the dangerous swells that the tempest has roused from slumber.

I rush up the dwelling’s steps, hang the lantern on a peg beside the door, grab the latch, and shove open the heavy oak. I step into the warmth of a large living area. So much bloody wonderful warmth provided by the fire on the hearth.

I’ve left lamps burning in this room, my bedchamber, and at the bottom as well as the top of the stairs. I knew before the night was done, with my belly filled with booze, I’d be in no state to light them.

I shift my burden until she is settled in my arms. She emits the tiniest soft mewling that I could swear burrows its way through the layers of my armor to settle within my chest. It feels as though my heart has released an erratic beat to accommodate the unexpected arrival. I won’t soften toward her, won’t soften at all, because anything that is not rock-hard can break. Even steel and iron can shatter with enough force. The only way to protect a heart is not to have one at all.

I turn for the stairs and my lower back protests. It plagues me since that fateful night when my world… when I… changed. I ignore the pain as I do most of the reminders that my life is no longer as it once was. I start up the steps. The she-wolf makes another whimpering sound.

“It’s all right,” I murmur. “You’re safe now.”

“Bawl . . . une,” she mutters. “Lost.”

Dear Goddess, she’s been traveling with someone. I knew there would probably be others but had dearly hoped none had been close to her. I can’t quite make out the name, not that it matters. All that matters is that she doesn’t succumb to the horrors she’s endured before washing ashore.

“We will find them,” I try to reassure her. I don’t need sorrow weighing her down. I often wonder how many people involved in catastrophes die from the heartbreak of losing someone rather than any physical wounds sustained. “Any and all of your companions.”

“No… one… else,” she mumbles.

“You were alone?”

Silence greets me. Does she know what she’s saying? Had she been the only one to fall over the side in the rough seas? Yet I’ve seen no evidence of anyone else or of a ship torn apart by nature’s wrath. No masts, no sails, no splinters of wood. No barrels, no cargo.

I don't want to contemplate that perhaps she’s been tossed over the side, that someone has deliberately attempted to do away with her. I can’t discount the possibility. I’ve grown up on the tales of how murder played a role in bringing my parents together.

Finally, I reach the top of the stairs and turn into the only bedchamber with a bed. I’ve not bothered to replace the rotting, decaying furniture I’ve tossed out from the other three bedchambers, because I’ve anticipated never having guests.

Gently, I maneuver my coat from her person, allowing it to hit the floor, before I lower the soaked she-wolf to a settee near the fire. Quickly I add additional logs to set the flames to roaring rather than being lazy as I prefer. Then I drag a blanket from the bed and drape it around her, tucking it around her.

While drawing my shirt over my head, I dash over to a small cupboard and snatch two thick towels from a shelf, running one of the linens rapidly over my drenched hair and torso as I make my way back to my guest, grateful for the heat of the fire.

The she-wolf is shivering with more force, her teeth clattering louder. I want to wrap her in my embrace so the warmth of my skin can ease away her chill. Want to do all within my power to ensure she doesn’t die. She can’t die on me. Not another to burden my conscience.

But first I have to get her dry. I kneel beside the settee, uncover one of her arms, and begin to briskly rub a towel along its length, all the while studying what is visible of her, searching for other injuries. A lump mars her forehead, scratches and bruises her face. “Miss? Miss?”

She doesn’t respond except to shiver more violently.

Working diligently, I move to the other arm and then to her legs, striving to ensure her modesty so as not to alarm her should she awaken. But soon modesty be damned. I have to get her out of the wet clothing. I will do it impersonally, paying no attention to what I am uncovering.

I’ll do as I’ve done once before and focus on the task, not the person. It will make it less painful if my efforts fail. I fight not to recall a time when I hadn’t been such a pessimist, when I hadn’t realized how innocent I’ve been. How foolish. How naive. How childish. Before I discovered how cruel life can be.

I won’t even consider that I’ll find corpses, that anyone on board hasn’t safely escaped the thrashing water. I push back the memories of others I had been unable to help. Most had perished before I got to them, but some had died in my arms, calling out for their mothers. They haunt me still.

It has been far too long since I’ve divested a she-wolf of her clothing. My fingers fumble with the buttons, ribbons, and laces as I fight not to notice the hint of warmth striving to burst through the chill of her skin, like a seedling emerging through the soil come spring. I try to prevent my knuckles from making contact with her flesh, but it’s an impossible task when her clothing is plastered against her as though it’s desperately searching for whatever solace she can provide.

I need to tend to her quickly so I can search the shore for others. Her companions, friends, family. Anyone for whom she might have a care. Even a husband. Although she wears no ring, so perhaps a suitor.

But why are any of them out on the water when there have been signs of a storm brewing?

Finally, finally, I manage to drag off what remains of her clothing. I order myself to forget the lovely bits I’ve been forced to view because doing so has been the only way to remove what needs to be removed. Gathering up her tangled strands of hair, I drape them over the arm of the settee to prevent the wetness from touching her and making her uncomfortable. Then I grab another blanket and replace the damp one, gently tucking the dry one in around her.

Although her skin is still cold to the touch, she is shivering less. Clumps of sand cling to her face. I consider leaving her to deal with the granules later, but imagine her rubbing them into her eyes, the damage they might cause. Having spotted no one near her, I’ll have to circle the island, might be gone for hours. I dare not leave her until I know she won’t need me, that she is out of danger.

I go to the wash bowl, dip a cloth into the cool water, and then squeeze out the excess. Returning to her side, I kneel on the floor and tenderly begin to wipe away the grit, careful to keep my touch light so as not to scratch her. She has finely arched brows. I am fairly certain the cut at the edge of one is going to leave a minute scar. I wonder if she is vain enough to be bothered by a marring of her skin.

Her lashes are long, thick, golden. Her cheekbones high and sharp. A lump on her cheek is going to cause her some discomfort. As will her nose, swollen and bloody, a gash going down one side of it. Fortunately, it is no longer bleeding. And I realize much of what I am wiping away is blood. Her chin reminds me of the bottom of a heart my sister often draws on her correspondence. Not quite pointed, but fanciful all the same. It is her mouth, however, that draws me.

A wide and crimson cut mars one corner of her lower lip, causing a bit of swelling, but even without that puffiness, there is a plumpness to her lips that I suspect would provide a man with a great deal of pleasure if he were to indulge in tasting her.

Removing most of the sand reveals that she’s been badly battered by the sea.

Leaning back slightly, I take in the whole of her features… and I feel a kick to the gut. I am struck once again with the familiarity of her. I am fairly certain I have seen her before, but the circumstances remain a mystery. Something about her seems off, but I can’t quite determine what aspect of her doesn’t appear to be particularly right.

I try to envision her without the bruising, scrapes, swelling.

Her hair is the incorrect shade, but if it were black...

I shove myself to my feet to take in all of her. By the Goddess, I know her.

Not that we’ve ever been properly introduced because nothing about her is proper. But on a few occasions, I’ve seen her, studied her. Have even lusted after her… like half the men of my acquaintance.

I come close to bursting with ribald laughter. I had cried out for a she-wolf and fate has seen fit to deliver to my shore Blackrock city’s most infamous courtesan.