A Fever in the Desert

Not even a stiff glass of whiskey could calm Michael’s nerves tonight as he scowled at the damp black book on his desk – it was completely blank. The little black book belonging to Delilah. Or rather it used to belong to her. Michael took a large gulp of whiskey, reveling in the burn he felt down his throat and then in his chest. He longed for that burn or in fact any burn that would distract him from the grief of Delilah’s murder. His sweet, hauntingly beautiful Delilah – How could he live knowing he would never again hear her melodic laughter echoing through the halls of his large estate? Knowing he would never again feel the warmth of her touch or admire her witty parlance? Yes, he’d loved Delilah fiercely from the moment he saw her glide into the gentleman’s club. She’d met his gaze boldly, challenging him to look away even with his lavish title of Duke. After that night Michael cared little of his responsibility to marry a chaste lady of the ton and produce an heir to continue his Title, he cared not of the whispers and gossip surrounding him and he didn’t even care she had birthed a child to another man. Michael thought only of Delilah, completely bewitched by her and burned like a fever in the desert. A stormed raged outside the window of Michael’s study and yet the furious banging on the door still echoed thunderously down the hall. 'Who could that be?' Michael mumured displeased and glanced into the darkness outside, it must be the early hours of the morning he mused. Michael stormed past the servants who had heard the commotion and arisen to investigate, and threw the heavy doors open. A coachman stood in the entrance holding a basket, inside the basket a screaming infant lay, thrashing wildly. She was Delilah’s; she bore her flawless dark skin and fierce black eyes. Michael’s heart lurched painfully in his chest, the resemblance being so uncanny it pained him to gaze upon her. “Here” the coachman thrust Delilah’s little bundle into his arms, slapped a soggy letter on top and retreated back into the blackness of the storm. Michael hurriedly carried the child back to his study, set the basket down on his desk and carefully opened the letter. Delilah’s hand read: 'Michael – my love, if you’re reading this I can no longer care for my daughter Celeste. It is because I needed money for Celeste’s future, I desired for her to lead a life better than my tumultuous one. Celeste’s father is the Tsar, when I discovered I was with child I knew he would cast me away and so I stole his priceless matryoska dolls and sold them to the French court. If you’re reading this he has found me and likely disposed of me. I’ve hidden the money with Celeste; it is now please find someone to care for Celeste. I wish you and I might’ve had more time Michael. My endless love and admiration,

Delilah

Ps: Dry my little black book over the fire.

Michael glanced over to Delilah’s book lying precariously close to the edge of his desk. Sounds of the fire crackling slowly seeping into Michael’s whirling mind “dry my little black book over the fire” Delilah’s words swirled in the back of his mind and he decidedly strode over to the blank book and started drying it over the fire. Why had Delilah asked him to dry this little book over the fire? What secrets could it contain? Within a few minutes, hand drawn images started to appear on the pages! The heat making them visible. Michael flipped through the pages in astonishment. The drawings were beautiful; they detailed Delilah’s time at Russian court, different noble men, the Tsar… naked men and women enthralled in passionate embraces. Drawings of Delilah pregnant, the priceless matryoska dolls that had ultimately cost Delilah her life. Michael flipped towards the end to see his own likeness staring back from the pages, Delilah had been so talented; in more ways than one. Michael turned to the last page and froze. All the blood drained from his face as his eyes bore into the final drawing. Michael got to his feet, took two unsteady steps to his desk and lifted his tumbler of whiskey to his lips, his arm trembling. The burn of the whiskey seemed to steady him and he again cast his eyes toward the open book lying next to the fireplace. The drawing revealed him killing the Tsar. For the next few weeks Michael pondered the violent image, he’d seen death before however he’d never ended a life with his own hand. To murder the Tsar would surely mean death for him too. However, he would once again be united with Delilah. Michael was resolved; he would kill the Tsar and avenge his beloved. Celeste would one day inherit a fortune due to her mother’s thievery so she would fair okay without him. Michael deposited the money into a trust for when Celeste came of age and entrusted her to a servant who longed for a child but could not conceive. He set his affairs in order and set a course for Russia. Michael had always hated winter and apparently Russia was having a particularly nasty one. Virgin snow donned the grounds as far as the eye could see, it lay everywhere as if it were clouds of heaven; pristine, still, the air stinging Michael’s cheeks with a ghostly chill. Being a Duke carried the perks of being admitted into the Russian court with ease, especially since Michael spoke the language beautifully. Michael had brought a blade with him, it bore his family crest; an heirloom. He would use this to plunge into the Tsar’s heart and therefore exact retribution for his sweet, worldly Delilah. Michael knew as he strode through the regal halls of court he would never leave, he knew his fate was sealed and yet Michael was at peace, ever longing to be united with Delilah. And then he saw her. The most exquisite creature he’d ever laid eyes on. Michael stopped dead and watched the siren as she danced sensually around a huge, luxurious room. The women were all scantily clad in sheer fabrics and yet he only had eyes for her. Michael watched as her hips rocked invitingly to the music, her long dark hair bounced, her cherry lips parted. Suddenly her bright blue eyes locked onto Michael, she lowered her eyes then gazed up at him through her lashes- never once losing her rhythm. Michael stared fixedly, completely enthralled as she turned and winked at another dancer, hiked up the side of her skirt and strode toward him, her bare leg tantalizing. “I’m Anastasia” she purred and gracefully extended a hand for him to kiss.

Just like that all thoughts of Delilah vanished for Michael burned for Anastasia like a fever in the desert.