Lois Greiman (11 page)

“Y
ou jest,” said Charity. Her voice echoed from the vast interior of Crevan’s dining chamber.

Keelan stood in the hall, out of sight, silent, listening. Naught but a few days had passed since he had first touched his father’s journal. He had read the entries, had turned the pages with hands that shook as he pored over the scratchy words, words that spoke of tides and bearings, of plans and dreams. Words that said naught of betrayal or pain or death at the hands of a cherished friend. ’Twas only the mind-bending dreams that spoke of those things.

“I do not,” said Chetfield. “Mr. Cornwell had tied himself to the mast, wearing nothing but a turban and a drunken leer.”

Her laughter was magical. “It must have been
ever so exciting sailing in His Majesty’s royal fleet,” she said.

“Can you keep a secret, sweet Charity?” The old man’s tone was conspiratorial.

“A secret?” She whispered the words like an enchanting child.

“I was, in actuality, what one might call a privateer.”

Keelan closed his eyes.

“Naw you wasn’t,” Charity denied. “A privateer, what brought back what was unrightfully took.”

He paused a moment. “Just so,” Chetfield said, and laughed.

“Coo. Did you ever come across treasure? Rubies and the like? Or was it all stodgy cargo?”

“Have you not heard, Charity, my dear? All that is gold does not glitter.”

“Perhaps not,” she said. “But the glitter sure makes it more interesting, don’t it now? What was the best booty you ever come across?”

“Booty?” He chuckled. “How long have you dreamed of becoming a pirate?”

“Pish. I get seasick in the dogcart on the way to market.” She sighed. “But I do think it would be exciting…living on the high seas.”

“Exciting? Oh indeed it was. Starvation.
Swells so large they block out the sun. Mutiny. Nothing like it.”

Charity laughed.

The old man remained silent for a moment. “But nothing is so exhilarating as your smile, my dear.”

“Well, it’s happy I am to see you feeling yerself, Master.”

“At my age, I am lucky indeed to be feeling anything at all. I credit you with that accomplishment.”

“Me?”

“You have taken such excellent care of me these past months.”

“Go on. ’Twas nothing anyone wouldn’t have done in my place.”

“I can assure you that is not true.”

“Well, I’m happy to do it. But I suspect I’d best be getting back to work now.” A chair scraped against the floor. “Or Mrs. Graves will be thinking I fell in a hole or something.”

“Tell me, my dear, don’t you tire of menial labor?”

“Me?” She laughed. Crockery clattered as she stacked it together. “Sure, sometimes, same as most I suspect, but me mum always said no one was so big nor so small she couldn’t carry her own weight.”

“A wise woman, your mother, as well as beautiful, I would guess.”

“Oh, she was that. Me father always said she—”

“I thought she yet lived.”

“Mum?” she said, and laughed. “Indeed she does, but she’s the one what always says, enjoy yer pretty whilst you got it, missy. ’Cuz youth don’t last more than a wink.”

Chetfield was silent a moment, then: “I have been thinking,” he said. “As your wise mother implied, youth is indeed fleeting. So perhaps your fair frame could be used for more…pleasing endeavors.”

Keelan could hear the girl’s footfalls clatter merrily around the table. Chetfield’s followed.

“Life ain’t always ’bout pleasure.” Silverware clattered on dishes. “That’s what Grimmy used to say. Sometimes—”

“But pleasure can be very pleasant.”

The old man’s voice had changed. It was deep and slow with suggestion. Keelan raised his fists, then unfurled them slowly and closed his eyes against such foolishness. He was a survivor. Not an idealist. Not his father. Indeed, ’twas far too late for that.

Still, despite the battle that waged in his soul, he could not help but slip from his place
against the wall. Soft-stepping farther down the hall, he turned, picked up a louder gait, and shambled through the doorway to the dining room.

“Oh.” He halted abruptly, just as intended, but truth to tell, seeing the girl so close to evil all but stopped his heart. “Master Chetfield.” He snapped his gaze from the old man’s to the girl’s. “They said I might find ye here.”

Chetfield gave him a predatory smile. “Mr. MacLeod, what a pleasant surprise.”

“I like to think I be pleasant,” he said, and forced a grin.

“And why is it that you care where I am this evening?”

“Truth to tell, I was worried about ye.”

“Worried. Truly?”

“Aye,” Keelan said, and laughed. “I’ve put so much effort into ye, I hate to see ye pass on now. Couple more days under me hands and ye’ll be leaping aboot like a schoolboy.”

The old man watched him in silence.

Keelan shifted his gaze to the girl’s, refusing to fidget. “Sure ye see a difference in him, don’t ye, lass?”

Her pretty face was solemn. “I can tell he’s feeling spry as a spring gosling.” Her eyes were wide and adoring. “You’ve been grand to us here
at Crevan House, Mr. Angel, and for that I’ll be forever in your debt.”

“Debt! Nay,” he said, and took a step back. She might be as sweet as clover honey, but statements like that were likely to get him killed. “Nay. Na a’tall. I’m just using the gifts what God gave me.”

She blinked up at him, then blushed and snatched her gaze away, flustered, as if they’d been lovers, as if she too had felt the breathtaking wonders of his skin against hers. “Well…” She stepped back. Chetfield dropped his hand from her arm. “I’d best be about helping with that wash.”

And then she scurried from the room. The world fell into a grim silence.

“It looks as if you have made a conquest, Mr. MacLeod.” Chetfield’s tone was low and grim. “I think our Cherry has become quite enamored of you.”

Keelan forced a laugh. “’Twould be flattering to think it, sure. But I fear she’s na the type to spark me dreams.”

A weathered brow rose the slightest degree. “I believe I saw evidence to the contrary some days past.”

God save him. “She’s a bonny lass, and no mistake, but, well…truth to tell…” He laughed
again. “I’m na so foolish as to go fishing in another man’s pond.”

Both brows were raised now. “In fact, Mr. MacLeod, I think you are just that type of man.”

“Well…” He nodded amicably. “Mayhap ’tis true, but na when the pond be stocked with sharks and all manner of beasties that are wont to chew the flesh from me living bones.”

“Tell me, Mr. MacLeod, might you be referring to me as a shark?”

“Nay. Nay, indeed, I would na—”

“If I did not know better I would almost believe you do not think me good enough for the girl.”

“Not good enough?” He shook his head, shutting out the shattering images of his father’s battered face, the dimming light in his sky-blue eyes. “Ye’re a wealthy man. And a peer of the realm. What lass would na be lucky to spend her days in yer company?”

“Her days?” Chetfield chuckled, his eyes predatory. “Indeed yes, but her nights even more so.”

Keelan’s stomach pitched.

“Does the idea of our wee Charity in my bed bother you, Mr. MacLeod?”

“Nay. Nay indeed. Whyever would it?”

The old man was watching so closely, Keelan was certain he could feel the thoughts inside his very head. He kept his hands steady, his emotions carefully packed away.

“No reason if you have no designs on her yourself.”

“And of course I dunna.”

“That is good. Good indeed,” Chetfield said, and turning toward the wall where his staff rested, took the misshapen thing in his fist. His hand looked stronger now, steadier. “Because tonight I shall introduce her to wonders she’s never seen.”

The world turned cold. Keelan searched for some blithe rejoinder, but there was nothing. Only rage and misery and loneliness.

“Nothing to say, Mr. MacLeod?”

“I hear there are many foine sights in Paris.”

Chetfield grinned. “I fear I had forgotten how amusing you are. But no, I speak of initiating her into the world of sexual pleasures, Mr. MacLeod.”

If he rushed the fooker, Keelan thought, he could take him, could beat the life out of him before his beasties arrived.

A glimmer of a smile shone in the old man’s eyes. “Have you objections, boy?”

It took all Keelan’s strength to pat down the rage, to calm the beast. “Nay, of course not. ’Tis the lassie’s choice.”

Chetfield laughed, evil personified. “Is it? Since when, I wonder.”

Keelan felt nausea curdle his gut, but Chetfield was watching, both hands steady on the head of his staff, eyes narrowed.

“Am I sensing protectiveness, Highlander?” The baron’s tone was low, introspective, amused. “From you—a coward and a thief?”

“Damn—” Keelan rasped, but the old man’s face was aglow with anticipatory pleasure, and somehow that expression calmed the storm in his raging soul. He forced a laugh. “Damned if you’re not right. ’Tis foolishness, of course. Best of luck to ye, Master Chetfield,” he said, and sketched a bow.

But in that instant the baron shoved the end of his staff into Keelan’s open wound. “After all these years I don’t need luck, boy,” he snarled. “I need a bloody good fuck.”

For a moment Keelan was tempted almost beyond control to take him by the throat, but ’twould do no good. Despite his father’s innocuous writings, he knew the truth. Sensed it through the ancient leather, felt it in his quaking
soul if not in his stumbling mind. He drew himself up, caught the old man’s gaze.

Chetfield scowled, then widened his eyes. “Who are you?” he rasped, but Keelan only pushed the staff aside.

“Naught but a coward,” he said, and turned away.

W
as the old man with her now? Would he take her by force? Could any man look into her soul-soft eyes and do her harm?

Lightning speared the sky outside Keelan’s window. He lay in the ensuing darkness, sweating, hurting. Memories washed through him like an untamed tide. Memories and passages and voices, warning him to tread softly, to bide his time, to think.

But her innocent amber eyes filled his mind. He sat up suddenly. Beside him, Lambkin raised her head. Lifting the little creature in his arms, he cuddled her absently against his chest.

Charity was not his responsibility. She was a woman grown, here of her own accord. ’Twas not his fault she had come at the outset. Not his fault she would be used and discarded. He
would not concern himself with her. God knew he had problems of his own.

Memories came again, sharp as spears in his mind. He pushed them back, knowing better than to dwell on them. Knowing the consequences. Pain. Endless pain. He lay back down, muscles burning, mind on fire. The lamb crowded close, curly coat rough against his arm.

Truth be told, he had no reason to believe Charity would reject the old man’s advances. What Keelan had said was true. There were a host of maids who would gladly welcome the old man to their beds. Surely Keelan was not the sort to blame them, for Chetfield was both rich and powerful. And if that was not enough, the lass seemed fond of the old bastard. Perhaps fond enough to long for his touch.

Keelan found himself pacing again, though he couldn’t remember rising. Thunder rumbled in the distance, echoing his tortured thoughts.

“It could na be true,” he hissed.

Lambkin watched him, ears droopy beside her soulful face.

“Surely na. He is naught but evil. The devil.” He halted, whispering to the lamb. “I think he may actually be Satan himself.”

Lambkin blinked.

“But she doesn’t believe that, does she now?”
He was pacing rapidly, barely noticing the pain in his ribs. “Most probably because it’s insane. Mad as a June hare, I be. Dreams and voices and—” He stopped abruptly, turning toward the lamb. “She thinks him naught but a sweet old man what can do no wrong. Who am I to save her? No great warrior. No hero of yore. No—”

But in that moment Lambkin raised her head and bleated softly, black eyes adoring.

The room fell silent, then: “Verra well then,” Keelan said, and suddenly he was in the hall, striding toward her chamber.

She was sweet innocence in a world of harsh evil. A gentle, lovely soul who did not deserve to be hurt.

The stairs groaned beneath his feet. Her door was closed. He could hear nothing. Did that mean she was yet safe? He moved closer, pressed his ear to the portal. No sound disturbed the night. He wiped his palms on his breeches.

Lambkin was wrong; he was no hero. But he would warn the maid. That much he could do.

The door latch turned softly beneath his fingers, not so much as a sigh of protest. He stepped inside. Lightning flashed, illuminating fragments of the room, a bedpost, the hearth, a scrap of russet carpet, then pitched the chamber back into blackness. Thunder rumbled, muffling the
soft fall of his footsteps. His breath came hard in his overtaxed lungs, but he pushed himself forward until he could see a bump beneath the blankets, could distinguish an uncertain shape against the pillow.

Terror struck him like a rusty blade. Terror and pain. Too horrible to speak through. Too terrible to escape, but in that instant a fork of lightning lanced the night. The shadows skittered away, showing the truth. The bed was empty but for the rumpled bedclothes.

“Merciful Father,” he whispered. He was shaky with relief, but suddenly a new question haunted him. If she wasn’t there, where was she? In the old man’s lair?

“…must be careful,” said the baron from the hall.

Keelan froze at the sound. Terror washed him anew.

“You are sweet to worry.” Charity’s voice was soft but clear in the throbbing quiet of the night. “But you needn’t. I feel safe as a cuddled chick here at Crevan House.”

“It warms my old heart to hear you say so, my dear.” Their footsteps treaded closer. “But who knows what evils lie outside our doors? You must remember that we have not yet determined what injured poor Mr. MacLeod.”

They were close now, almost upon him. Keelan glanced wildly about, searching for a place to hide. But there was nothing.

The footsteps drew nearer.

Breathless, Keelan dived behind the filmy grate of the fireplace screen.

“’Tis a dreadful thing,” she said. There was a shudder in her voice. Candlelight flickered past the doorframe, bathed the whitewashed walls. Keelan huddled behind his weakling shield. “Have you no idea what might have wounded him so grievous?”

They entered the room. Chetfield shut the door behind him. Candlelight flickered in his eyes as he swept his gaze past the fireplace.

Keelan’s breath knotted in his throat, choking him, but Chetfield only stepped away, out of sight.

“Tell me, Cherry, what possessed you to go wandering alone in the dark this night?”

There was a strange tone in the baron’s voice. What was it? Suspicion? But nay. Keelan’s stomach twisted at the thought. Surely not. Evil itself could not think Charity guilty of anything more heinous than innocence.

“The thunder woke me,” she said, “and I could not for the life of me find sleep again.” Her voice trailed off, and when she next spoke, she had
turned away. “Me father used to say the thunder growls at the rain but that there be no bite to it. Yet I’ve never liked the sound of it.”

“It must get lonely for you…so far from home.” His footfalls paced across the oaken floorboards and onto the carpet. His walking stick went with him, clicking in unison.

“Lonely?” Her footsteps moved closer. Keelan caught his breath just as she appeared in his narrow line of vision.

“A beautiful girl like you must be accustomed to being surrounded by admirers.”

“Me lord,” she said, and laughed. “’Tis not nice to go teasing girls like me.”

Chetfield stepped into view, catching her with his strange, canine gaze. “Surely you know how lovely you are,” he crooned.

“I’m a simple girl,” she said, shaking her head. “Nothing special.”

“You’re wrong there, my dear.” His eyes lowered, skimming her rain-soaked form. Her creamy bodice was all but diaphanous now, clinging like lace to her lovely bosom, her narrow waist. “You do special things to me.” His dry lips curled up. “Spectacular things. Would you like to see?”

Lightning crackled in the black square of the window. Keelan’s heart jumped in his chest.

“Oh!” she gasped, and when Keelan looked
again, she was gone from view. Only Chetfield remained, brows lowering. “Gracious. That was a close one, it was. Frightened me something awful. But like me dear old mum always said, sometimes it takes a good fright to make ye know you’re alive.”

“I am very much alive.” Chetfield was closing in on her again. Keelan could tell by the hushed tone of his voice.

“Of course you are, Master. You’re going to live for a good long time yet.”

He chuckled. “Yes, I am. But there is living and then there is living. Don’t you agree?”

“Well, me father used to say—”

“I can offer you much.”

“You’ve already given me more than I could ask for. I don’t need much by way of—”

“More than you can guess with your simple mind.”

“What’s that?”

He was crowding her now. Keelan could hear it in the tension of her voice, could feel it, though he couldn’t see them.

“I am a very wealthy man, little Charity.”

“Master Chetfield, I don’t mean to seem ungrateful, but I don’t know if me mum would approve of me being in me bedchamber alone with you.”

“And powerful. If I wished…” He paused. “I could make your life quite miserable. Or…I could make it extremely pleasant.”

Keelan could hear her soft breathing now and tightened his hands to fists.

“Which would you prefer, sweet Charity?” he crooned.

“I like pleasant,” she murmured.

“Good. That is good. For what I have planned will feel pleasant indeed.”

“Master Chetfield…” she began, but the old man hushed her.

Keelan squeezed his eyes closed.

“Master Chetfield, I don’t think—”

“Good.” His voice was melodious. “Do not think. Just act.”

“Please, Master—”

But suddenly she moaned. From pleasure or fear, Keelan would never know, for he could bear it no longer. Driven from his hiding place, he leapt to his feet…and stopped.

Lightning crackled. White light sprang across the room, illuminating Chetfield, unconscious on the floor.