The Poison Diaries: Nightshade by Maryrose Wood Page B

and savour life’s pleasures. But we have to get out of this blasted country and never come back. We can do it, too. I know all the smugglers’ ships out of Kent and Cornwall, and I’m owed favours up and down the coast. I’ve made plenty of money, and never paid a penny in tax. Most of it’s hidden away back home. We’ll book passage on a cutter, and there’ll be no questions asked. With the money I’ve saved we’ll buy a little farm inCounty Sligo. Or if that’s still too close for comfort, we’ll go to America. There’s fine land in Virginia, they say, and tobacco’s a cash crop. It’ll be a simple life, a sweet one, and no more running.” He presses his lips to my neck. “Come with me.”
    â€œDon’t.” My voice is sharp. “You think you know who I am, but you do not – if you knew all I have done –”
    â€œI’ve no need to know, now or later. Once we cross the Irish Sea, it’s a new land, a new life. Your troubles won’t follow you there, whatever they are. I swear it.”
    Already the bed is warm from his presence, warm as a sun-baked meadow in the long days of summer.
    Tempting, isn’t it, lovely?
    I am promised to Weed. I want no other.
    But surely it is pleasant, to lie in the arms of a man who’s actually here? Whose kisses stir you even now, despite your protestations of love for another?
    It is – pleasant.
    And where was Weed when my lovely Jessamine was jettisoned, left derelict at the fetid bottom of the Tyne? Thehorse trader was there, ready to save you from peril and buoy you back to life – but Weed? Nowhere to be found. As usual.
    â€œWill you come with me, Rowan?”
    Why don’t you say yes, lovely?
    I cannot. I will not.
    Such noble sentiments! Surely you don’t believe that Weed is alone this evening?
    I know he is faithful to me.
    Is he? You may be ignorant of his whereabouts, but I am not. Even now, he is handing a single perfect rose to a blushing young woman. She is beautiful, I must say. In fact, she looks a great deal like you…
    Thinking my tears are some show of feeling meant for him, Rye kisses me.
    â€œWill you come, then? Will you?”
    Go ahead, lovely. Bestow upon him your tender lies, spread your broken wings of love. Obey me, and I will reward you in the end, as promised. If Weed truly loves you, he will take you back, even slightly soiled. And you know how this kind of thing amuses me…
    â€œYes.” I twine my arms around Rye’s neck and draw him to me. “Yes. I will.”
    Happiness spreads like the break of dawn across Rye’s broad, unsuspecting face. “Now seal your promise with a kiss.”
    He kisses me, and more. He is a grown man, and no stranger to a woman’s body. And I am no innocent, to be sure.
    Is loneliness a kind of love? Is despair? I do not know, but they open the door to passion nearly as well. Perhaps it is the slow poison trickle of jealousy and doubt that Oleander has fed me, but I am not wholly sorry to surrender. For I have been cold, in every fibre of my being, and Rye warms me. His passion is a furnace that burns my pain to ash.
    It is exactly the kind of forgetting I need.
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    He stirs early, long before dawn, and reaches for me once more.
    â€œWhen we get to Ireland, I want you to marry me, Rowan,” he says, groggy. “Say you will.”
    â€œI already told you.”
    â€œSay it again.”
    â€œI will. Go back to sleep.” He grunts and rolls on his back.
    Time to go now, lovely.
    I have no money – how will I pay for my travel?
    Check the horse trader’s pockets. And make sure he sleeps until the sun is well up; I would not have him give chase.
    Silently I slip from the bed and go to my bag of poisons and cures. My heart pounding, I do my work quickly and in silence.
    I wait until a gentle snore leaves Rye’s mouth slightly open. As the sweet drops slip