The Viscount's Son (The Viscount's Son Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  In the moment it took me to take in this scene, a goblet of dark red wine was pressed into my hand and I was seated at a small table. She moved swiftly to the chair opposite, hand extended, grasping my own. My pulse raced, my head clouded by the fragrance, the wine – her beauty. Her touch felt like ice, but sparks flew to my heart – and my groin – when she turned my hand playfully between her own.

  She studied my palm, smiling at me alluringly. I supped the wine as I watched her full lips, my eyes wandering frequently to her neck – her breasts – that knot seemed so easily undone ...

  In a moment – one ecstatic moment – she had my fingers in her mouth, kissing, licking, sucking. I felt breathless, my control diminished. I reached for her, but she was quick, so very quick.

  She stood, and then turned to me slightly – her body in profile, the candles illuminating the shine of her raven hair upon her breasts. This did little to settle my passion.

  A hand – a servant's hand? – guided me from the pavilion. That night I walked in a dream. The minutes were as centuries, for I longed to be with her.

  Chapter 5

  Caught in a web

  Sunday 25th August

  Before I left work on Friday, I received a call from a friend, Amelie, who works in the Impressionists section of the museum. She asked me to go out for some fun. Of course, I was tempted to have a night out. But the diary is far too exciting, so I told Amelie I was too tired, but promised to go out with her soon.

  I raced home, stopping briefly at the pizzeria below my apartment to get my Friday night meal – a large slice of margarita. It wasn't long after, that I had the diary on my desk again. With a nice glass of Bordeaux red, I settled in to do another translation. I've spent a large portion of the weekend on it.

  What did you think of the last translation? Things certainly heated up for N.C., but if you think that was steamy wait till you read the latest instalment! I have to say, I'm enjoying translating this text more than watching 'True Blood' and I love that show.

  In this next section of text, he meets up with the mysterious gypsy woman again. Sorry about the spoiler, but I want to highlight a particular word said by the gypsy. N.C. writes it as 'atimar', but I believe she was probably saying 'atma' which is an ancient Romani word and indeed is still used in some languages, such as Hindi. It loosely translates to 'soul', but because this is my interpretation, I have kept the word as 'atimar' in the translation.

  Once again, enjoy!

  Emma.

  Fourth Translation

  Last night I watched a spider entangle a moth in her web. The moth struggled clumsily in the sticky substance. I considered, briefly, the idea of freeing the insect; sometimes compassion arises within me. However, before I could make up my mind, the spider had sprung. She leapt with great agility and speed, and in the instant it takes to blink, she had her victim in her grasp.

  The day following my encounter at the fayre remains somewhat of a mirage. I seem to remember polishing a breastplate, the day was hot again, but my mind was focused only on the events of the night before. My thoughts returned relentlessly to the beauty and allure of the gypsy. The scent of the oils, the tone of her voice, the taste of the wine; all the sensual delights from the few moments I was with her were clear and vivid.

  I ruminated all day, until a page approached me with a message. I touched the scroll to my lips and breathed the familiar scent of spiced rose. I tore at the red ribbon and my eyes, hungry for information, read the note. It was written in an exquisite hand, the ink red ...

  Come to me tonight.

  After the moon has waned.

  I stared at the words, rereading them, my heart a bolted horse!

  The afternoon drifted into evening, and finally into night. I passed the time with my fellows, drinking ale in the tavern, waiting, dreaming ...

  Finally, midnight came, and I walked to her tent. Once again, I was struck by the scent of wild, spiced rose. A warm breeze caressed my face and moved the crimson curtains, exposing the lamplight within. I entered.

  The pavilion remained exactly as I remembered it, but she sat at the table, waiting expectantly, smiling and gesturing for me to sit. I took the seat opposite, and once again, a goblet of wine was proffered. I looked at the bearer this time and saw a small woman, bent and aged, her eyes blank but friendly. Then she disappeared.

  I felt a hand caress my own – the gypsy’s hand. Delight took me once again. Her charcoal eyes looked deep into mine and I was filled with an ecstatic pleasure.

  "I can see your atimar," she said, her voice deep and alluring.

  I was hardly aware of what she was saying, so distracted by her charms. It is only now, on reflection, I see the significance of her words.

  "We are all born with atimar," she said, "but some walk without."

  Then she had my fingers in her mouth again, and I dropped the goblet. I reached for her as I had done the night before and this time she remained still.

  I caressed her neck, and followed the line of her shoulders, then touched the swell of her breasts with the back of my hand. I grasped the knot that held together the red corset she wore. Some great strength overcame me for I tore it apart and the corset fell lose, exposing her full breasts and exquisite beauty.

  In another moment, I had her in my arms and carried her to the canopied bed, whereupon I kissed her lips, her throat, her breasts. I remember it well, for such forbidden fruit was laid bare and I gorged myself on it. The ecstasy of that night was like no other. My hands can still feel the form and thrill of her most secret parts.

  ... Oh, I was entangled, deep within her web!

  Chapter 6

  Love bite

  Saturday 21st September

  Firstly, I must apologise for my absence. I have been in the field and I believe this work has some link to my translation of N.C.'s diary.

  So where have I been? Egypt. Philippe was desperate for a restorer to visit one of our long term digs.

  Our museum has a number of partnerships with Egypt and other countries. We have roughly a dozen digs in operation at the moment. My job was to simply ensure the scrolls and canvases found were preserved correctly for transport back here. It took several weeks to clean the pieces and get them ready for transport. Now they are in a lab in the bowels of our museum, being analysed and translated by some lucky person.

  I feel so privileged to have seen them. There were a number of art pieces, and scrolls with simple hieroglyphs. It was the art, however, that caught my attention. We believe they tell the story of the nomadic gypsies who moved over the millennia through almost every continent imaginable. The pieces had such brilliant colour, mostly showing the stories of nomadic travel, but a few also conveyed festivals. There were paintings and needlework of large pavilions and tents and one of them, when I looked very closely, had an image of a pentagram. I managed to do some research while I was there and it seems that in Egypt the pentagram was a symbol of the womb of the underground that gave birth to all things evil. The pavilion in one piece was red and it reminded me a little of the one N.C. spoke of.

  Of course, it is unlikely to have been the same one; we dated the artefacts from the dig to the thirteenth century.

  This diary is so interesting and I am glad to be back so that I can put all my efforts into the translation again. By the way, I asked Philippe where the book came from; he said it came from a site in this very city. It seems there was a fire at an Indian restaurant and in the aftermath, a few old world treasures were found, buried under the site. I wonder how it got there.

  I now have 30 regular readers, Thank you!

  Enjoy it.

  Em.

  Fifth Translation

  She had me. I was in utter awe of her charms, and they were many. I have frequently pondered on what could have been – if only the gypsies had gone to a different town, if only I had avoided her tent. Such ponderings are useless now of course. Now I am irrevocably changed.

  I met with her every night. The moon
seemed to remain in a perpetual state of fullness, for each evening it would light my way to her pavilion where the spiced rose perfume drew me in. Our passion had intensity like fire, it raged through the night. I left each dawn, spent.

  The days were arduous. The boredom of peacetime rituals did little to stop my mind wandering back to sweet dreams of her.

  The last night we were together was most thrilling. She was waiting for me as usual, but, this time there was no preliminary talk, no wine proffered. When I entered the red tent, my breathing stopped the very moment I saw her. She knelt on the canopied bed, her arms open awaiting my embrace, gloriously naked. Her womanhood was fully exposed, her perfect, dark hair cascaded down over her ample breasts, the curvature of her waist, the dark patch of hair, glistened in the candlelight. My arousal was immediate.

  She enjoyed this, too. She watched me and smiled at the immediacy of my reaction. Her hands gathered her hair up and I watched her graceful movement in wonder. It was too much. I went to her, kissing that slender neck, cupping my hands to her breasts, feeling her exquisite shape, tasting her. Even now I desire her – after all she did ...

  In the passion of that night, an erotica was awoken in her that was ecstatic. She sat atop me; I can still see the way she arched her back, moving seductively. I suckled her breast hungrily. She threw herself forward and kissed me fully, my lips, my neck. Her teeth and tongue grazed my skin. It was so pleasurable when it came, a love bite like no other.

  The skin of my throat gave way under the piercing bite. It conjured a heat that pulsed through my entire being. It brought me to climax and it was heavenly. She drew back, and I could see the blood on her lips, but it did not frighten me. I was drunk on her lust and like a drunk, I lay back exhausted.

  She woke me once, to offer water. I was thirsty and I gulped the cup down. It was dawn when I awoke again and she was not there. I dressed and took my leave.

  Chapter 7

  Fever

  Thursday 26th September

  I'm working double time at the museum. Philippe wants the Egyptian artefacts fully conserved and has put me in charge. Of course, I’m excited by this. I love working with the vibrancy and colour of the gypsy relics, not to mention the historical significance. But Philippe wants me to step up my work with the Medieval Solider Database as well. I don't blame him, I know he has deadlines to meet, but it's so tedious. Really, it's just data entry, anyone could do it; it doesn't require a trained conservator!

  So, my life is all work, no play. Amelie keeps nagging me to go out. I used to have a wonderful social life. Out for dinner every Friday and Saturday night, followed by dancing the night away. I need to get my life back. You should see my apartment. I have two mountains in it; and remember I live in a studio. One mountain has my clothes for the laundry; the other has my clean clothes, yet to be put away. They're like a giant 'in-and-out-tray'.

  All I really want to do is get stuck into the diary. I haven't had much time for it at all. I have managed to do a little translation, and I've posted that below. I can't wait to translate it entirely. What did you think about the gypsy? Provocative stuff, huh? Maybe that's why Jack didn't like it. Perhaps it offended his sensibilities. Knowing Jack, I rather doubt it.

  Emma.

  Sixth Translation

  I slumbered all day and when I awoke at dusk, my fatigue had abated little. My exhaustion lay heavy on my shoulders, as though I wore a full suit of armour. I recall dragging my body from my bed and pouring a cup of water. I gulped it down and poured another, it was as sweet as Roman wine. Only then did I realise my thirst, and hunger. I had slept the day away – me, the captain of my father's men. I remember the shame I felt. Interesting, even bastards succumb to the poison of honour.

  I called for the squire and instructed him to prepare a cool bath. It was the height of summer and I had fever that burned like fire on my skin.

  The boy nodded, but studied me closely. He asked if I was well. I was not. He pointed at my neck and his young face contorted into an expression filled with horror, ‘Master, your neck'.

  I looked in the glass. My face was white, like winter. An inflamed festering wound pronounced itself on the side of my neck. I touched it gently with my fingers and felt the heat, like coal as it burned. I stumbled but leaned closer, and in the dim dusk light, I studied the welt. There were two puncture wounds. Twin pricks, round, red and sore. I called for the chirurgeon; he came quickly. He bandaged my wound and asked no questions, demanding only that I be bled. I refused.

  As night fell, I made my way outside. My pace was slow; the weakness encumbered me like a heavy chain around my neck.

  I walked toward the fairground. Even in my fever I was drawn irrevocably back – to her. But when I arrived, there was nothing – the tents, pavilions, the people, the fayre – they were all gone. Only the silver light of the moon and the summer breeze remained. And in that breeze, I perceived the subtle scent of spiced rose ...

  Chapter 8

  Desire

  Saturday 5th October

  Work is finally easing up. I have been allocated an assistant to help with the conservation of the Egyptian artefacts. Jack is helping as well. He asked me how my "little project" was coming along. I haven't told him about this blog – we're not supposed to be so public about the documents we transcribe. But since Philippe has officially labelled the diary a fake, I'm not too worried about it being in the public domain. I was reticent in my reply to Jack, though; he'd view my work on the diary as a waste of time.

  The word ‘gypsy’ seems to be infiltrating my life at the moment. Amelie finally dragged me out for some fun last night. We went to Le Carré for fine dining, and then on to The Gypsy Bar for some dancing. I love that bar. It reminds me of the descriptions of the Gypsy’s pavilion in N.C.'s diary. The walls are red with lavishly embossed wallpaper. The lighting is entirely candlelight. It makes me feel as though I’ve stepped back in time.

  After a couple of Frangelicoes on ice, Amelie got me up dancing. A Spanish guitar troupe was playing and when they strummed the opening chords to Bamboleo Amelie jumped to her feet. I'm not the best dancer on account of my two left feet, but I loved it. It was wonderful to relax and have fun and just enjoy the music.

  Little did I know I was being watched. Amelie and I danced for a handful of songs, and only sat down to rest when the band declared a break. Amelie decided we needed a cocktail and went off to the bar. I sipped my water and watched the crowd milling around our table. That's when I saw him.

  A man sat at a shadowy corner table. He swirled a glass of wine. The momentary glow of his cigarette as he inhaled revealed a handsome face, framed in black silk hair, and dark eyes that looked directly at me. I smiled then and looked away. There was something so intense and interesting about him. I got that feeling, you know, when you see someone who attracts you? Like a butterfly sensation in the stomach. I looked around for Amelie; she was still at the bar. When I looked back at the corner table, he was gone.

  I was a little disappointed, and started scanning the bar.

  I nearly jumped when I heard a deep voice right beside me. "Looking for me?"

  I know it sounds cheesy but he really said that. He said a lot of other things too. I think I'm hooked already. We talked for the rest of the night. Luckily, Amelie also found a friend.

  So – his name is Nathan. But he prefers Nate. He took my number and he said he would call. I'll let you know what happens.

  But, let's get back to our viscount’s son.

  There's not a lot happening in the next update, and I admit, I shortened the original a little, but I believe we have a definitive year in which the diary was written. In this translation, you'll notice that N.C. mentions a particular legislation, and I believe he was referring to the Egyptians Act of 1530. This law was passed in that year to allow the authorities to physically remove the gypsies, who many considered devious troublemakers. Since N.C. is reflecting over the past year, the diary must have been written in 1531, or not lon
g after anyway. It would certainly fit with the testing I have done.

  Enjoy.

  Emma.

  BTW - I have over 50 followers now!

  Seventh Translation

  As the days passed I recovered from my lethargy, and the wound on my neck healed. My physical strength was renewed and I returned to my duties as Captain. The summer slowly surrendered. The gardens replaced their scarlet roses with the burnt orange and blood reds of the autumn leaves, and the long nights of winter were quick to follow.

  I could not forget the gypsy woman. She returned in my dreams to dance around me wearing a scarlet gauze cape, so fine I could see her nakedness in full. The cape would be tied with a fragile ribbon, but when I reached for it I would wake to find my arm extended before me, grasping for the imagined ribbon.

  It was a hard winter. The boredom of peacetime offered no distraction. I wished for summer and the return of the gypsies. But in this, some news arrived that shattered such a wish. The fools who rule from parliament had passed a mandate; they wanted the gypsies expelled. With little in the way of war to occupy the realm's soldiers, we were called upon to enforce the act ourselves. Come summer, I would be faced with a choice. I was divided in two, the soldier who followed orders and the man with a desperate desire for a nameless woman ...

  Chapter 9

  The Return