Scoundrel (Lost Lords of Radcliffe Book 4) (9 page)

Just from remembering, she flushed with heat, and though she tried to push the prurient picture out of her mind, she couldn’t manage it.

She understood that she was a healthy twenty-five-year-old female who’d spent very little time around men. Yes, she was marching down the road to becoming a nun, but she was only human. She couldn’t fail to be intrigued, especially when he was so fascinating and flirted so outrageously.

If she found herself liking his attention, it wasn’t surprising. It had been an eternity since anyone had noticed her as an individual person, and it felt marvelous to be singled out. She wouldn’t deny it, but she couldn’t continue to revel in his regard. She had to make plans and begin implementing them.

By traveling to the villa, she’d hoped to receive assistance from the occupant, but clearly no assistance would be forthcoming. Mr. Hubbard had no funds to loan, no advice to give, and no interest in helping her out of her predicament.

She needed to journey on to Scotland, needed to transport Mary, Martha, and Millicent to the convent while she figured out what was to be done with them now that their aunt, Mother Superior, had passed away.

Rowena had to head for home too, before she wandered off her path and abandoned it forever. So it was ridiculous to dawdle, to stand on a secluded balcony and drool over Mr. Hubbard’s fine form and dashing manner.

But she couldn’t desist.

She wished she had his ability to discount the outside world. She wished she had his ability to pretend she had no responsibilities. And he didn’t actually seem to have any. There was no family or position calling him to England. He could loaf and play to infinity, but she couldn’t. She had to get going, but just that moment she couldn’t recollect why.

Mr. Hubbard delivered a hard jab with his sword that sent Mr. Robertson’s weapon flying.

“I win again,” Mr. Hubbard said, “and you’re dead.”

He stuck the tip of his blade at Mr. Robertson’s throat, and the younger man laughed and pushed it away.

“You’re a menace, Chase.”

“Yes, I am,” Mr. Hubbard agreed, “and don’t you forget it.”

“You enjoy beating me.”

“Yes, but I’m trying to improve your skill too. I’m doing you a favor, you pathetic ingrate.”

“You’ve taught me well. If I’m ever in a battle, I’m sure I’ll be able to hold my own.”

“If you don’t, you’ll be dead for real. No bandit will pass up the chance to plunge his blade through your heart.”

“I always intend to stay right by your side so if we meet with criminals, I’ll hide behind you.”

“What if they kill me?”

“Then I suppose I’ll be in deep trouble.”

A servant was hovering next to Mr. Hubbard. It was the gigantic man who’d initially greeted her, the man with the shaved head, braided beard, and strange tattoos. She’d since learned that his name was Akmed, and he couldn’t talk. His tongue had been cut out by slavers when he was a boy.

She tamped down a shudder. She wouldn’t remain in a country where boys had their tongues cut out, where pirates threw gentlemen into the ocean to drown. She wanted to return to Britain, where life drifted along with no drama and no surprises.

Mr. Hubbard gestured to Akmed, and he fetched Mr. Robertson’s sword and wiped it off.

“Let’s try it again,” Mr. Hubbard told his friend. “
En garde!”

Mr. Robertson sighed. “Must we keep on? I’m hot and thirsty.”

“Again, Ralston!” Mr. Hubbard snapped, and Mr. Robertson set his feet.

They began, steel ringing with each blow, their tanned bodies twirling and bending as they parried. The bout went on for quite some time, but gradually Mr. Robertson started to retreat. Eventually he lost his footing and fell on his bottom.

“I give! I give!” He held up his palms in surrender. “I admit it. You’re better than me.”

“Of course I am, but you’re not so bad yourself.”

“High praise, my dear sword master.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

Mr. Hubbard extended his hand, and Mr. Robertson was yanked to his feet. That’s when Faith heard giggling and applause.

She glanced over the balcony rail to see Rowena and the girls sitting in the shade and watching the lesson, as were numerous servants.

To Faith’s dismay, Rowena had shed her wimple and her hair was pulled back with a ribbon. More shockingly, she wasn’t attired in her habit. She’d found some clothes somewhere, and they weren’t the sort of garments any Englishwoman would ever consider wearing. They must have once belonged to a native woman.

The fabric was light and thin, colorful, and wrapped around her as if it was a towel. It outlined her curves so there was no question of her shapely anatomy. Her arms were bare, her feet were bare.

The girls had changed too. Their stiff skirts, petticoats, buckled shoes, and stockings had been removed, and they were dressed in outfits similar to the female servants, a type of casual trouser that billowed at the calves and tightened at the ankles. Their upper torsos were covered with vests, and they were barefoot too.

Mr. Hubbard took that moment to spin around, and he noticed her lurking up above. He flashed a seductive grin, winked, then sauntered off with Mr. Robertson. She slinked into the quiet hallway and leaned against the wall, reviewing her situation, what was happening with Rowena and the children.

When Mr. Hubbard had peered up at her, her pulse had raced as if she was an adolescent ninny in the throes of her first crush. Every facet of her response was dangerous and wrong, and she had to put a stop to it. Unfortunately she was delighted by his attention and apparently so starved for it that she was rapidly forgetting her position in the world.

The previous evening, he’d suggested she toss away her wimple. At the time, she’d claimed she never would, but evidently she’d taken his words to heart. As she’d risen that morning, it had been very hot. Her wimple was hanging from the bedpost in her room.

She kept telling herself she’d done it simply to be more comfortable, but the pitiable fact was that she’d done it for Mr. Hubbard, because he’d urged her to, because she’d wanted him to note that she had.

After a mere two days in the residence, she was already suffering strange alterations to her character. It almost seemed as if magic was afoot. Would she yield to it?

She hurried down the stairs, anxious to find Rowena, to speak with her, but nervous about how to phrase her comments. Any remark would sound scolding and wouldn’t be welcome, yet Faith felt she should counsel caution.

And what about the girls prancing about like natives? Should it be allowed? They were very young. Did it matter how they dressed while staying at the villa?

Faith couldn’t decide. Nor could she describe her relationship to them. With their parents being deceased, Mother Superior had been bringing them to the convent to live and attend school. Their only other kin were a pair of bachelor uncles in India, and even if a letter could be gotten to them about their nieces’ plight, it might be two or three years before Faith received a reply.

She intended to carry out Mother Superior’s plan, to convey them to the convent and settle them there. But she actually had no authority over them—except that she was willing to exert some influence. She wasn’t their guardian. They weren’t her wards.

Rowena had joined the trip to serve as their nanny on the journey home. If she chose to attire them in a manner Faith didn’t like, was it Faith’s place to chastise Rowena? She assumed it was, but wasn’t certain. Rowena was much closer to them than Faith was, and she believed herself to be in charge of their routine activities.

What to do? What to do?

It was a question that constantly vexed her.

She reached the grassy courtyard just as the girls were leaving with the servants to have a snack. Rowena was leaving with them, and Faith called, “Rowena, may I talk to you for a minute?”

Rowena turned and when she saw Faith, she straightened and stood belligerently, as if daring Faith to mention her clothes. Surely Rowena couldn’t expect that Faith would ignore it. Faith had no right to order Rowena to behave, but a gentle reminder seemed appropriate.

Rowena waited until everyone was gone, then asked, “What is it? If you mean to complain about my outfit, please don’t. I’ve been hot and miserable for weeks. A maid showed me these colorful garments folded away in a trunk, and I’m finally comfortable. While we’re here, I’m not putting on my habit. I won’t.”

“Fine.” Faith couldn’t bear to bicker. “But should you dress like this, Rowena? Have you thought about it?”

“Yes, I’ve thought about it, Faith. I’m not a dunce.”

“I realize that. It’s simply that we’re a long way from home, and it’s easy to forget who we are.”

“I know who I am. I am Rowena Bond. I am a novitiate at the Sisters of Mercy convent located near Edinburgh, Scotland, but it’s been totally against my wishes. At the moment, there’s no one to judge or condemn me, and I’m making my own choices.”

“Are you planning to forsake the convent?”

“No, how would I?”

Rowena’s reply was very firm, but she glanced away, giving Faith the definite impression she was lying.

“So you’re…
what?
Playing? Loafing? Pretending you’re someone else?”

“Yes, precisely. I’m pretending to be someone else. You should try it yourself. You might be surprised by how much you’d enjoy it. I guarantee you’d be much cooler.”

“What about the girls?” Faith said, raising a different argument.

“What about them?”

“I’m not sure we should let them run about half-naked.”

“Honestly, Faith, who is there to tell us we shouldn’t? Their dresses are filthy, and they’ve been wearing them for weeks. The maids are washing them. Would you rather I had them running about in nothing at all?”

“No, of course not.”

“You exhaust me. Stop worrying so much.”

“I can’t help it. It’s wrong for us to stay here.”

“It doesn’t feel
wrong
to me. It feels quite grand.” Rowena walked by her. “Now then, if you’ll excuse me, I’m having dinner with Mr. Robertson.”

“In those clothes?”

“Yes, Faith, in exactly these clothes.” She kept on, but at the last second, she peered back. “By the way, where’s your wimple? It seems, fussy Faith, that you’re relaxing your own rules.”

“I was hot too,” Faith petulantly said.

“So was I. Remember the old adage, Faith? It’s about glass houses and throwing stones.”

Rowena stomped off and, torn and conflicted, Faith dawdled in the quiet.

She was no one’s guardian or nanny. She was just Faithful Newton, who understood more clearly than ever that they needed to get moving. The villa, with its lush courtyards, bubbling fountains, competent servants, and spectacular views, lulled a person into a dangerous state of languor.

Mr. Hubbard and Mr. Robertson were men, so they could dawdle without consequence. But she couldn’t, and neither could Rowena. Fraternization was perilous, and if they lingered, she suspected disaster would result.

They had to leave. They had to return to the nearby town where there was a good size population and a harbor. She had to muster some aid there. Before departing for the villa, she hadn’t spoken to any of the local people about her predicament. Once she’d been apprised of Mr. Hubbard’s presence, she’d trotted off to find him.

No doubt, if she searched in town, there would be a Christian family that might help her. Or maybe a ship’s captain would take pity on them and let them board. She’d never know if she didn’t try.

She decided to confer with Mr. Hubbard, to thank him for his hospitality, then apprise him they would go in the morning. At least she hoped they would. She and the girls certainly would, but whether Rowena would be with them was a matter of some aggravation. Rowena didn’t appear as if she was ready to go anywhere, and Faith had no authority to force her.

As she wandered down the hall, she felt unaccountably sad, which was ridiculous. They’d visited Mr. Hubbard to beg his assistance, but he couldn’t provide it, so there was no reason to tarry. Yet she had to admit it had been quite thrilling to meet him. He’d made her recall that she was a woman, that she was interesting and pretty and likeable.

She had no idea where he would be, perhaps at the bathing pool, but she wasn’t about to seek him out at the decadent spot. The servants would be aware of his location, and she went to look for one of them.

She rounded a corner and heard laughter and talking, and she headed in the direction from where the voices seemed to emanate. Swiftly she found herself outside a bedchamber, and she glanced in.

Mr. Hubbard was there, in a shady alcove with pillows strewn on the floor. She almost spoke to him—when she realized a female servant was with him. It was one of the lithe nymphs who fanned him with palm fronds.

At the moment, she wasn’t fanning him.

She murmured a comment in Arabic that had him grinning, then she reached up and pulled off her vest. In a trice, her bosom was exposed.

Faith was stunned and agog. She knew she should turn and tiptoe away, that whatever was about to happen, she shouldn’t watch, but she couldn’t make herself go. Her feet were rooted to the floor.

Dropping to her knees, the woman relaxed onto the pillows, and Mr. Hubbard followed her down and stretched out atop her. They exchanged more words in Arabic, then they began kissing and it was the most exciting, disturbing sight Faith had ever witnessed.

She couldn’t recollect ever seeing two people kiss. She, herself, had been kissed exactly three times by her cousin, Lambert. The incidents had been quick, cool pecks of his lips to hers, the furtive embraces not anything she’d encouraged or enjoyed.

There had been stories though, at school and other places, about kissing and how passionate it could be. Rowena often obsessed about it, but the stories didn’t come close to reality. She’d never imagined it could be so astoundingly electrifying.

The debauched pair’s mouths were melded, and their hands were caressing everywhere. They were biting and scratching too, as if they were grappling for control. Mr. Hubbard dipped down and licked the woman’s nipples, then he sucked one into his mouth, nursing at it as a babe would its mother.