Scoundrel (Lost Lords of Radcliffe Book 4) (2 page)

Just that quickly, it was over.

He collapsed to his knees and would have plunged face first to the deck, but he was grabbed, lifted, and thrown over the rail as Fitzwilliam and Robertson had been thrown over.

He was extremely disoriented, barely conscious, his wounds oozing blood. The fall seemed to take forever, the water approaching in a sort of slow motion. He landed very hard, his entire front smacking painfully.

An array of strange thoughts careened through his mind. He was cognizant enough to realize that his life should have been flashing before his eyes, that he should have been thinking about his sister, Amelia, or his dear friend, Bryce, and how much he lamented their bitter parting.

He was about to meet his Maker, would be called to account and ordered to defend his three decades of awful behavior. Regrettably he’d never been anything but a scoundrel and had always enjoyed his disreputable existence. He’d never been sorry for any transgression he’d perpetrated so it would be difficult to offer an alibi for his misdeeds.

He didn’t have one.

As he sunk beneath the waves, his last coherent recollection was to remember every hideous mishap that had occurred during his journey in Egypt. Wasn’t it typical that the horrid trip would end with him drowning in the Mediterranean and there being no clue as to what had happened to him?

He also wondered—as he had a thousand times previous—what had ever possessed him to leave England for a single second. There must have been a reason, but just that moment he had no idea what it might have been.

CHAPTER ONE

North Coast of Africa, 1815…

“Are you sure this is the place?”

Faithful Newton, who was usually called simply Faith, glanced at the driver of the cart in which she was riding. He couldn’t speak English, but he seemed to understand her question.

He gestured to the house out on the cliffs by the sea, indicating they had arrived and she should get out and let him be on his way.

She peered over at her friend and traveling companion, Rowena Bond, and asked, “What do you think?”

“It’s awfully isolated, isn’t it?” Rowena replied. “What if the property is abandoned? What if this oaf tots off and leaves us in the desert to starve?”

Faith scowled. “No one is starving, Rowena. Watch what you say please.”

They had three little girls with them, Millicent, Martha, and Mary MacKenzie, ages five, six, and seven. They were a trio of blond-haired, blue-eyed siblings who were cute as cherubs. Considering the catastrophes their small group had recently endured, they were extremely apprehensive over what might befall them next, and Faith couldn’t blame them for being concerned.

She was terrified every minute of the day. She didn’t need Rowena adding to their list of worries.

Mary, the oldest of the three, tugged on Faith’s sleeve and nervously inquired, “Are we going to starve?”

“No,” Faith firmly stated. “Rowena was joking.”

“No, I wasn’t,” Rowena griped under her breath.

The driver gestured again to the house, the path leading out to it. He was intent on hurrying them along, and Faith knew she should climb out, but she couldn’t move.

Even though she was loath to admit it, Rowena had a point. If the seaside villa was abandoned, it was a lengthy distance back to the port town from which they’d come. It being the middle of the afternoon, the blistering sun was scorching. Any sane person would have stayed in town, would have been loafing in the shade.

Faith definitely wondered if she was sane.

Every decision she made turned out to be wrong. Every choice ended in disaster, yet the girls and Rowena were counting on her, expecting her to be in charge and in control, when Faith had proved—over and over—that she had no ability to guide anyone.

Although she and Rowena hadn’t spoken their final vows, they were novitiates with the Sisters of Mercy order of Catholic nuns. They were from England, but Papist institutions were few and far between in their home country, so their convent was located in Scotland.

They were wearing their black skirts and white wimples. They looked like nuns and were treated like nuns, but they were stranded in Africa among the Moorish people. They were alone and unprotected, their Papist roots as blatant as if their foreheads had been branded with crosses.

She’d been told there was a European—possibly an Englishman—living in the villa, that they might gain assistance from him. At least she assumed that’s what had been said. On the desolate, exotic coast where customs and languages were so strange, it was difficult to communicate.

When they’d departed for the villa, it had seemed perfectly logical to seek out the only European in the area. But now that they were outside his abode, she wasn’t so sure. Perhaps she should have left Rowena in town with the children. Perhaps she should have come on her own to see if aid was likely.

As swiftly as the idea arose though, she shook it away. They oughtn’t to be separated. Not for a single second. Of that fact, she was absolutely certain.

The driver barked a comment in Arabic, his gestures becoming more adamant.

“Yes, yes,” Faith mumbled, “I understand. We’re here, and you must be off.”

She slid down, Rowena too, then Rowena lifted down the girls. Yet the man didn’t continue on. He held out his hand, demanding to be compensated.

“What does he want?” Rowena asked.

“I’m guessing he’d like us to slip him a coin for giving us a ride.”

“Greedy blighter.”

“Rowena! Such language.”

“It’s obvious we’re religious devotees who’ve taken vows of poverty, so he
is
greedy. I’m just stating the truth.”

“I don’t need quite so much
truth
in front of the girls.”

It was a constant topic for quarreling. With all that had transpired, Rowena believed the girls should toughen up and grow more wary, but Faith wasn’t so heartless. She thought she and Rowena should pretend—as much as they were able—that everything was fine.

They were all sufficiently on edge, and it was cruel to unduly alarm the children. Rowena disagreed, feeling that they weren’t nearly alarmed enough. Rowena was correct, but Faith wouldn’t admit it. If calamity struck and Faith and Rowena perished—God, forbid!—what would happen to the three girls?

The prospect didn’t bear contemplating.

She had a purse strapped to her waist. She opened it so the driver could peek inside. It was very, very empty. She shrugged in apology, hoping she looked contrite. As he realized he’d get no reward, he muttered a remark that had to be an epithet, spat at her feet, then clicked the reins. His goat pulled the rickety vehicle away.

“Honestly!” Faith fumed as Rowena said, “Well! I never…”

Rowena picked up a rock as if she’d throw it at him, but Faith grabbed it away. Rowena had never wanted to be a nun, and her temper and patience were exhausted.

“Let him go,” Faith scolded. “Don’t make a fuss.”

“Good riddance,” Rowena hurled to his departing back.

“Good riddance,” the girls echoed like a chorus, but they quieted when Faith glared at them.

“We didn’t like your stupid old cart anyway,” Rowena yelled.

Shortly he disappeared over a hill, and they were all alone. The only sounds were the crash of waves down on the beach and the rustle of wind swishing over the sand. They turned toward the sea, toward the villa that faced the sapphire water.

The building was quite large, and she wondered who had constructed it. The spot was so bleak. Who had chosen it and why?

In front of them, the Mediterranean stretched to the horizon. Behind them, the desert dunes rolled to infinity. The road they’d journeyed on wasn’t really a road at all but a line of wagon tracks cut into the dirt. There were no other houses, neighbors, farms, fences, or animals. There was just the sea and the sand and the gulls cawing.

It seemed as if they’d arrived at the end of the Earth, as if they might take a wrong step and plunge off the edge. They might have been the very last people on the planet, as if disaster had felled everyone else and they were the only humans left.

How had her life reached such a ridiculous point?

She might have stood there forever, pondering her pathetic lot, but Rowena and the girls were staring, waiting for her to tell them what to do. Ever since Mother Superior had died a few weeks earlier, Faith had become their leader, a position she hadn’t sought and didn’t relish. But if she hadn’t taken charge, who would have?

She was twenty-five and Rowena twenty. Rowena was hot-headed, quick to rile and even quicker to lash out. She could be wild and erratic and had none of the traits necessary for the peaceful solitude of the convent, but her parents had locked her away anyway.

In a crisis—which was definitely how Faith would describe their current predicament—Rowena shouldn’t be deciding any issue.

So…there was just Faith, and she was trying desperately to keep them alive and fed and safe until she could figure out how to return to Scotland. It was her sole motivation, her sole objective.

“Shall we go in?” she asked them. “I’m anxious to discover what type of fellow is here.”

“Do you suppose he speaks English?” Rowena said. “I hope he does.”

“If he doesn’t,” Faith replied, “I speak French and a bit of Spanish, and the girls speak Italian. We should be able to communicate in some fashion.”

“He’ll help us, won’t he, Sister Faith?” Mary asked.

“Of course he will,” she staunchly insisted. “A gentleman—most especially a British one—can always be counted on to assist a lady who’s in trouble.”

“Are we in trouble?”

At Faith voicing the word
trouble
, she could have kicked herself. “No, not trouble precisely. We’re in a little jam, but we’ll get out of it.”

“Are you sure?” Mary pressed.

“I’m positive.”

Rowena shot her a glower that oozed skepticism, but Faith pretended she didn’t see it.

“Come.” She started toward the villa. “I’m eager to meet him.”

“So am I,” Rowena claimed, but her snort of derision told the truth. She believed in the adage that anything that could go wrong would go wrong.

They tromped up the path, the trail easy to maneuver. And they had no luggage to slow them. Their possessions had been stolen while they’d languished in quarantine at the harbor.

They crested the bluff, then stopped in their tracks. The villa was fully in view, the beach below, the sea calm and very blue. Waves lapped on the shore. It was a glorious sight, a sort of oasis. The white marble walls glimmered in the hot sun, and through the main entrance there were shaded walkways and gardens.

She wanted to stroll into the foyer, wanted to lie down and stretch out on the cool tiles of the floor. The ferns and palms beckoned to her, begging her to come in out of the heat.

Down on the beach, two men were racing on horseback. They were laughing, appearing carefree and delighted with themselves.

They were too far away for her to glean much about their features. Both were dark-haired, their hair long and whipping out behind them. They were attired in trousers and boots, but weren’t wearing shirts so she could observe much more flesh than she should have.

Their skin was tanned as if they regularly romped outside without their clothes. Or perhaps they were natives, their skin normally bronzed. Whoever they were, they were muscled and fit and athletically inclined.

She should have glanced away, but she couldn’t. They were so happy. They made her wish she were a man, which was a sentiment she’d often suffered.

Men ruled the world. They dressed how they pleased and acted how they pleased. They traveled when they liked, cavorted and debauched without consequence. She would love to strip off her heavy garments, to run barefoot across the sand in only a chemise and petticoat, but such liberties were never allowed to a female, so she was destined to remain buttoned up in her stifling black nun’s habit.

“Ooh, would you look at that,” Rowena crooned, staring with too much curiosity at the scantily-clad pair. “Could that be our host?”

“I have no idea,” Faith said.

“This jaunt just got a lot more interesting.”

Faith yanked away, and she grabbed Rowena and turned her too so they couldn’t ogle the virile duo.

“Spoilsport,” Rowena complained.

“We have more important matters to attend. Let’s get inside and see what we can learn.”

“I swear you’ve been living in the convent too long. You’ve forgotten how to appreciate a handsome man.”

“I can still appreciate a handsome man,” Faith countered. “At the moment, I simply have other issues on my mind.”

They reached the portico, but no servants rushed out. No butler greeted them. She listened intently, trying to hear any sounds, but it was eerily quiet. Was the house abandoned?

If it was, she wouldn’t be surprised. It would merely be one more stroke of ill luck in a long string of ill luck.

She straightened her shoulders and marched under the archway. As she stepped out of the bright sunlight, she was temporarily blinded, and she had to blink and blink to regain her vision.

Suddenly a very large native man blocked her way. He towered over her, his shoulders massive, his demeanor menacing. His head was shaved, and he had a gold earring in his ear. He had a lengthy, braided beard, strange tattoos on his chest and arms, and he carried a lethal-looking sword on his belt, the blade curved in a perfect arc to make it easy to decapitate foes in battle.

She blanched with terror, and Rowena shrieked with dismay. The girls screamed, and they—with Rowena—raced out. Faith was left to face him alone.

He didn’t speak, but displayed no threatening moves, and she smiled, praying she seemed pleasant and harmless rather than frightened and ridiculous.

“Hello.” She waited for a similar salutation, but didn’t receive it. “I am Sister Faithful Newton.” She gestured to Rowena and the girls. “These are my friends and traveling companions.”

He stared, but didn’t respond.

“I am with the Sisters of Mercy. Our convent is located near Edinburgh in Scotland. Have you…ah…ever heard of Scotland?”