Read A Shimmer of Silk Online

Authors: Raven McAllan

A Shimmer of Silk

 

 

 

 

 

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 withheld 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.

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