Scoundrel (Lost Lords of Radcliffe Book 4) (3 page)

She repeated her remarks in French, then Spanish, but he didn’t exhibit the slightest hint that he understood. He might have been a stone statue, but she was undeterred.

“We’ve been in Rome at a convocation, and we were on our way home, but we’ve had some trouble. In town, we were told there is a gentleman here who might assist us. We were hoping we could—”

Before she could finish the sentence, he held up an enormous palm, so she stopped talking. There was a bench in a shaded alcove. He pointed to it, indicating they should sit, then he spun and went into the house.

She glanced at Rowena and the girls, motioning for them to approach, but they were frozen in their spots.

“It’s all right,” she soothed, feigning confidence. “Get out of the sun. Come join me.”

She walked to the bench and continued gesturing. Ultimately they hobbled over, but it was clear they were prepared to bolt at the least sign of danger.

“Is he a giant?” Martha asked.

“No. He’s just a very large man.”

“He looked like a giant to me.”

“He isn’t. He’s simply very tall.”

“He was scary.”

“He wasn’t scary. He was…different from what we’re used to. I’m sure we surprised him as much as he surprised us.”

Rowena peeked over at Faith and, in her usual pessimistic tone, said, “I have a bad feeling about this.” Anymore she was never anything but pessimistic.

“I can’t imagine why,” Faith replied.

“One swipe with that sword of his, and you’d have been a head shorter.”

The girls stiffened with alarm, and Faith snapped, “Rowena! Please!”

They quieted down, with Faith determined not to provide Rowena with an opening to utter another overly dramatic comment. They dawdled for an eternity, until Faith began to wonder if they’d been forgotten.

She was about ready to give up when he appeared and motioned for Faith to follow him. When Rowena and the girls rose too, he scowled, indicating they should remain on the bench.

“Faith,” Rowena hissed, “you can’t go in there alone.”

“Nothing will happen to me,” Faith insisted.

Rowena leaned nearer and whispered, “What if you never come out?”

“I’ll come out. I swear.”

“How long should we wait for you?”

“As long as it takes for me to discover if we’ve found a knight in shining armor.”

“There aren’t any of those left.”

“We’ll see.”

“Be careful!”

“I’ll be fine, Rowena.” Faith nodded to the girls and said again, “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

Hot and miserable and forlorn, they were such a bedraggled little group. She whipped away, unable to bear their searching gazes. They were positive she knew what she was doing, that she would fix what was wrong, but she hadn’t a clue as to how.

Ever since they’d sailed out of the harbor in Italy, ever since disaster had struck on their ship, she’d been bouncing from one idiotic decision to the next, and no matter what choice she made they were never a single mile closer to Scotland.

Her escort walked into the house and she hurried after him, not having time to assess the surroundings or décor. If she had to suddenly turn around and escape, she had no idea how to get back to the front entrance.

Still though, she tagged after him. What other option was there?

Eventually they stepped out onto a marble verandah. The Mediterranean provided a scenic backdrop. It was the most spectacular spot she’d ever viewed in her life.

At the far end, under a raised, shaded arbor, a man was sitting in an ornate chair that was fancy as a king’s throne.

Two lithe, dark-eyed nymphs stood on either side of him, fanning him with palm fronds. The spritely pair was scarcely dressed, shockingly attired in trousers and vests and showing too much skin. She could see their flat bellies, their naked arms, and an exorbitant amount of cleavage. Their wrists and ankles were covered with gold bangles that jangled when they moved their hands.

As to the man, she thought he might be one of the equestrians from down on the beach, but she wasn’t certain. If it was the same fellow, he’d changed his clothes.

He was wearing an odd, flowing sort of trouser that was sewn from a colorful, shiny fabric. His feet were bare, his chest bare. He had a European ancestry, but he was so bronzed from the sun that it was difficult to predict whether he also had native blood in his veins.

His eyes were very, very blue, his hair black, long, and hanging over his shoulders. He looked bored and decadent and too handsome for his own good, and he was staring at her as if she was an alien creature he’d never witnessed before.

Her escort vanished into the shadows, and she couldn’t figure out if she should approach or tarry until summoned, so she hovered, feeling nervous and unsure as she hated to ever be.

He studied her, starting with her face, then taking a slow meander down her torso and back up again. She wondered what he saw, but guessed there was no detail that would tantalize such a masculine cad. In light of the willowy girls fanning him, it was obvious what kind of female he enjoyed.

In her dreary nun’s habit, her shapely figure was concealed by the heavy material so she had no traits that would entice him, and she thought he was precisely the type of libertine who would like to be enticed.

With her auburn hair and merry blue eyes, she’d always been pretty, and though she’d been a novitiate with the Sisters of Mercy for eight years, she retained a feminine spark that was abruptly ignited. She wished he’d notice her comely features. But in her dusty, sweaty garments, her wimple firmly in place, it was impossible to appear fetching, and the fact that she yearned to present a more flattering picture was irksome in the extreme.

She’d joined the convent at age seventeen, deeming it the perfect way to escape pressures at home. She would become a nun once she was ready for the final vows so she hardly needed to flaunt herself to a strange man.

“Well…?” he ultimately said, his British accent very clear.

“Oh, you speak English. Good.”

She marched over, stopping directly in front of him. His throne was on a dais so he was up above her, but even without the added elevation, he seemed very large and much grander than she’d expected him to be.

With him seated, she couldn’t exactly discern his height, but she suspected he’d be tall, six feet at least. He was a bit older than she was, probably thirty or so, and with her standing so close, she had to admit that he was an excellent male specimen, broad-shouldered, tanned, hale and fit.

She was flustered by him though, by his bare flesh and piercing gaze, by his superior size and semblance of authority. He made her feel small and poor and insignificant, and she’d like to request he put on a shirt, but she wasn’t certain how to broach the subject.

“You are…?” he inquired in a derisive fashion.

“Sister Faithful.”

“Sister…
faithful?
Are you commenting on your piety or is that your name?”

She’d had a lifetime of jokes about her name, so her smile never wavered. “Faithful is my given name, sir. To whom have I the pleasure of speaking?”

“The pleasure?” He chuckled. “I don’t believe anyone has ever viewed it as being pleasurable to speak with me. We’ll converse for a few minutes, then you can decide what you think.”

She noted that he hadn’t supplied his own name. Was he on the run from the law? Was he a criminal? He lived by the sea. Was he a smuggler or pirate?

“What is this place?” she asked.

“The locals call it the Ghost House.”

“Why?”

“Because there are ghosts in it, Sister Faithful. Why would you suppose? I’d tell you the Arabic name, but you couldn’t pronounce or remember it.” He leaned back and studied her again. “What can I do for you? What has brought you staggering to my door?”

She was offended by his boorish tone. “I didn’t stagger.”

“Fine. You didn’t stagger. How did you arrive?”

“I walked part of the way and rode the rest in a farmer’s cart.”

“You came from town?”

“Yes.”

“Deliberately to find me?”

“Yes.”

“To what end?”

“I need your help.”

She hadn’t meant to simply blurt it out like that. He was being particularly surly, as if he’d never learned any manners, but there was no reason for him to be so impolite. He was the first British person whom she’d stumbled on in weeks. He couldn’t disappoint her. She wouldn’t let him.

“You need my help?” He looked flummoxed. “As I’ve never previously laid eyes on you, what makes you imagine I’d be inclined to provide it?”

“I don’t know where else we can turn.”

“We? Who is with you?”

“My fellow sister, Rowena, and our three charges.”

“Charges?”

“Little girls.”

“There are…what? Five of you?” He was horrified by the number.

“Yes. They’re in the foyer waiting for me, and now that I see for myself you’re British, and clearly you’re a gentleman—”

He snorted with amusement. “
I
am a gentleman? Your powers of discernment may be a bit off.”

“No, I’m positive you’re a gentleman, and we throw ourselves on your mercy.”

He waved a decadent hand. “Don’t be throwing yourself anywhere. Just tell me what you want. If it’s in my power to bestow it—which I doubt very much—I shall give it to you.”

He seemed imperious and bored, and she felt she should talk faster so she could say all she had to say before he was done listening. Like a lazy despot, he flicked his wrist, and a servant appeared out of nowhere and slipped him a goblet.

She was so hot and so thirsty, she could smell the contents, could sense the goblet contained red wine. She’d never been much of a drinker, and wine was never available at the convent, but she’d developed a taste for it in Italy where it had been poured freely. She was a hairsbreadth away from falling to her knees and begging him to offer her a glass too.

“I’m guessing you should start from the beginning,” he said.

“That would probably be best.”

“What are you doing in Africa?”

“We had traveled to Rome with Mother Superior.”

“From where?”

“Our convent is in Scotland. There was a confluence at the Vatican. In addition, the Mother Superior’s sister, who was living in Rome, passed away. She was mother to the three girls who are with me. We’re taking them to Scotland.”

“You still haven’t explained why you’re in Africa.”

“On the trip home there was illness on our ship.”

He blanched. “What sort of illness? A plague? Cholera? Dysentery? What?”

“I don’t know what it was.”

“Have you delivered it to my doorstep?”

“No, we’re healthy. All of us are fine.”

“You seem quite sure about that.”

“I am. We’ve been quarantined for the past month.”

“Who quarantined you?”

“I think he was the harbormaster. I don’t speak the language, so I wasn’t certain of details. Many of the sailors were violently sick—”

“How sick?”

“They died.”

“Died!”

“Yes, and the captain couldn’t continue with the small crew that remained. We limped into the nearest port.”

“But with a contagion on board, they wouldn’t let you debark.”

“Well, we—Rowena and the girls and I—were allowed to debark, but we were locked in a shed until we were deemed free of any infection.”

“You have yet to clarify why you’re still in Africa. If I were you, I’d have purchased passage on the first boat heading out to sea.”

“That was my plan, but when the quarantine ended and we were released, our ship had sailed. We had money and clothes and other items, but all of it was gone.”

He scoffed with disgust. “Robbed, were you?”

“Of everything we had.”

“And your Mother Superior?”

Faith had to swallow twice before she could say, “Dead of the contagion.”

She’d been a kind and caring individual, and she’d picked Faith to be her secretary, the coveted position guaranteeing that Faith had been required to travel to Rome with her to write letters and keep records.

She’d been the mother Faith had never had, and Faith was suffering terrible guilt over the woman’s demise. Why had the devout, pious nun been taken? Why had Faith—who was vacillating and insecure in her spiritual convictions—been spared? It made no sense, and she’d love to have a long conversation about what had occurred, but she wasn’t about to have a philosophical debate with the odd, exotic man.

He pondered her predicament, drummed his fingers on his chair, signaled for his goblet to be refilled. “You’re in a bit of a jam, Sister Faithful.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The people in town suggested you discuss it with me?”

“They felt you might be able to assist me. Or that you could assess options with me in my own language. At least I think that’s what they were hoping.”

“They sent you to your own kind.”

“They sent me to you,” she saucily retorted, “but whether you’re my own
kind
is questionable.”

He laughed and laughed, and as his mirth waned, he asked, “What is it you want from me?”

Money, aid, advice, friendship, safety, shelter, protection…

How was she to return to Scotland? How was she to get Rowena and the girls there? When they’d emerged from quarantine and found their worldly possessions had been stolen, and the local men claiming no knowledge of what had happened, her every religious impulse had fled.

She’d wished again, as she so often did, that she were a male, that she’d been armed with a very large pistol. If so, she’d have shot every single one of them right between the eyes.

“I need to keep on to Scotland,” she boldly declared, “and I need you to help me.”

“How would I?”

“Could you leave with us? Could you escort us?”

“Since we’re strangers who’ve only just met, I consider that to be an extremely brazen request.”

“I realize it is, and normally I wouldn’t be so crass, but I’m exhausted and starving and thirsty and afraid. I can’t force myself to be meek and polite.”

“I’ve noticed that about you.” A fascinating smile curved his lips. “I have no funds to purchase fares for you, and even if I had I would never escort you anywhere. I wouldn’t get back out on the ocean for all the tea in London.”