Cruel Seduction

Chapter Two- Desperation

Hot embers and coals were burning in the hearth, though dimmed but not exactly diminished. The warmth was almost too low, as if the people in the room were just seconds away from getting frozen. That was the way it was at Darenth, just south-east of Dartford town.

Living in a barely-standing cottage that was a women's community, this was undoubtedly scorned because women were supposed to be weak and dependent on men. Lady Margaret was the supposed leader in this small group of women consist of widows, young girls escaping marriages, and a few who nobody had a clue of their past. Rose was one of them.

Surviving with them for a year was not hard, but the British accent was certainly growing on her. At the first time, Rose couldn't really understand what they were talking about. High tea was common in England but not of America, however, she was starting to take a delight on it. Because it mean break times and though the tea was that of tea leaves boiled again and again, added with a lot of water. During that time, there was no coffee or even coffee bean. It was only during the 19th century when Industrial Revolution started and a lot more capable machines were invented.

The tea barely had any taste, and sugar and cream was only provided necessities to those of aristocracy. Cakes were only baked twice a week, and sometimes, strawberries squashed were used as toppings, which were only used during those important dates. These dates included birthdays of any fellow women within the group, or special marked holidays.

The first time Rose had awoken from her drown-induced sleep, she had been sure this was some kind of lunacy and joke. But the women had regarded her as the joke. Wrapped only in linen and very scratchy cheap cotton blanket, despite speaking with a foreign accent and bewilderment, she was treated with care and respect.

She had understood she was the stranger here. There were a few months when she had tried to ask from Lady Margaret where she was and her friends. The waves and sea, followed by drowning was not lost to her but she had briefly wondered if it was just a dream. Almost every women or men in passing were dressed in 16th century peasants clothing. Women were plainly dressed and the hemline of the dress was visible underneath the white apron. The gown-which doesn't looked like one-consisted of different layers of clothing, starting with the chemise that are cut into triangles as to sew the sleeves, gusset, side seam and gore in one long seam. Next is followed by the kirtle, the gown, partlet, jacket then the black wool shoulder cape. These are those dressing worn by lower classes, and over here, Rose was one of them.

Confusion was one of those familiar emotions she had felt. This wasn't real. A few weeks ago, she would still irrevocably believe that she was truly lost to her home in America. This depressing thought had led to Lissa, Eddie and Dimitri. Lost her friends and lover, abandon in a foreign land would seem to be a much worse way other than committing suicide.

Rose wasn't a coward and not fond of ending her life just like that. She had wondered in the night, if it was possible to just sail over to America and maybe, she would be back. Wasn't it the way stories worked? But when she had first stepped into the sea, wasn't suicide her intention? The thoughts were overwhelming, almost too hard to bear because some part of her knew that if a conclusion was made, she would truly be lost to America. Stranded in England.

One of her duties in the house was to go into town with Lady Margaret and get some daily provisions, which wasn't much, and tools for the garden that was blooming with flowers. They were herbs to be exact. Rose groaned, having less than five hours of sleep because she was busy crying. Blood whores were very common during that time and men had watched them passed salaciously.

"Young lady, if a person did not see your face, he might think of you as an old lady who groans too much." Her chided tone was affectionate and warm brown eyes had watched her in a very motherly way her words had not.

"Seriously, Margaret, you're too uptight. Loosen up a bit."

Rose's voice measured hers, playful and teasing.

Margaret just glared at her and shook her head. She had told Rose to call her full title, but she had always been disrespectful and too wild for her good. She had never understood where this girl had come from, and her accent was evidently of some foreign land. Realising that she had not even a penny in her pocket, probably washed away by the sea or too soaked to use, she had accepted her in their small but very cooperative and friendly group of women dhampirs.

Blood whores had lined the street, looking over for some rich moroi crossing over the town. Rose despised them for who they are, incapable of feeding themselves by labour or through some legal ways. The blood whores were not illegal, mind you, but they seemed too disgraceful and cheap of a job.

Even through her thick clothing, it couldn't really hide her figure or obscure it. (Rose had secretly trimmed about two inches from the bottom of her bodice to bring the waistline up to the narrowest part of her torso, giving the perception that she had a slimmer waist.) Men leered and some openly watched, which she later learnt was very, very rude and impolite to do to a woman with freedom and not under anyone.

Rose watched the flow of people around her as Lady Margaret took a look at a few cloths on display. The feeling crept into her heart once again at this strangeness, this place that she had no idea of. Time-travelling, was it even possible? Unless she was stranded at some asylum shaped to look like a town and being all dramatic with all these old-fashioned dressing, she was sure there was no other explanation.

She forced the constant pricking of tears to disappear, hoping that she would, maybe, woke up and realized all was just a dream. Blink. Again. This dream seemed too real for her, blamed it on good imagination. A movement at the corner of her eyes caught her attention as she watched a man, very plainly dressed, was suspiciously glancing all around, focusing his attention at somewhere beside her.

All that was beside her was Lady Margaret and, of course the woman selling the fabrics. She glanced around; trying not to look too weird or it will catch the thief's attention. He was definitely an amateur, with looks and all. His hair was mussed, unlike the usual proper of the male here, many having closed cropped hair. He was neither wearing hat or was having his greasy black hair tied back in a strap.

His walk was unstable too; and it was when he kept coming their way did she finally get where he was aiming at. Lady Margaret, still bend over at the waist, which wasn't very ladylike, had her coin pouch ready at hand to pay. The man attacked, his knee bowing, preparing to grab it and run. Rose swept the pouch in her hand, interrupting Lady Margaret in her speech with the woman, and then never thought that the man would so openly assault her. Perhaps she had been too trusting that the conduct of the people here would be too conserve and regard this act as humiliation, therefore not even attempting it.

His jump at Rose was somehow successful, grabbing the pouch and ran off. Rose flushed then, adrenaline pumping through her blood, and she once again felt the rush of fighting and protecting again. She ran, uncared of how foolish and imprudent she would look. Rising up her simple gown, she grabbed a short simple blade that she had taken from the household.

She cursed as she hurried after him, the people a blur to her, and then with a flick, she aimed at the guy and struck. He was very fortunate because as he was turning to an alleyway, away from the main street, the blade nailed him right at the interval. A few drops of blood flowed, and the man let out a scream.

The thief glared at Rose and made a frantic attempt to get himself unattached.

"Mother effin bastard."

He was a dhampir, surprisingly. He could still yank the knife from the knife right out of his shirt from this angle. His arm reached back and Rose grabbed his arm, twisting it and then heard a satisfying 'pop' sound. The man swore at her, but the precautions were not done yet; she had yet finished off his legs and right arm.

"Stop Rose, you'll invite trouble this way." But the rush was too exhilarating, she couldn't stop. She resisted the arm to just squeeze his neck, but inflicted some pain upon the man's legs. His limbs wobbled and with a scratching sound, his cloth was torn. The thief was too bloody and hurt to do anything but cry, instead to curses he had gone to pleading.

Lady Margaret swooped down and grabbed the purse, her lips pursed and her frown deepening.

"You've destroyed whatever reputation I have tried to build for you. Even in this rural town, women aren't supposed to go throwing and what is that, a knife onto a man's back!"

"But he stole your pouch, aren't you in the least grateful?" Rose was angry, no, she was bloody annoyed, what in the world was this lady thinking?

Lady Margaret opened her mouth as though to rebuked but close it again.

"I appreciate the effort. But don't do this again. I am a healer, not s-some hooligan out having people attacking villagers, even if he was at fault."

Rose rolled her eyes, her lips trembling with anger.

"But the deed's done, isn't it?"

She expected a scolding or something like that, but was surprised when she was met with silence. Rose looked up, and was given a brief hug. She was rendered speechless to even respond.

"Thank you, child. But don't risk yourself like this again." It wasn't much a risk, but probably a dent to whatever existing reputation she had. Suddenly, in Lady Margaret's arms, Rose felt a warming starting at her heart. Being here didn't seemed too scary anymore.

Author's Confessions:

The faulty on my computer proved to be too serious that a new one was required. Which means, i've lost all my documents and had to install almost everything. Exams had finished, though results weren't very much what i had wanted, i guess it was still passable. I hope life has been kind on you readers.

Disclaimer: Any resemblance to real person, places, or works are purely coincidental. Any work very much resembling Richelle Mead or A.E Moorat work is not mine but theirs.

Oh, and thanks for the reviews! ADrian would appear much later, or else the plotline would be very weird.