Regency Scandals and Scoundrels: A Regency Historical Romance Collection

by Scarlett Scott

  There was silence. He heard the wall-mounted brass clock tick away seconds. He asked the question that burned within him ever since he returned to Palermo. “Will you wait for me?”

  There was another pause. He held his breath waiting for the answer.

  “Yes.”

  Her answer ended all of his restraint. He rained her face with kisses and explored her form with his hands, and she matched him with her fervor. At some point, their clothing was shed, and they lay on his bed, skin to skin. With a gentle push to his shoulder, Kit found himself on his back allowing Sophia to take the lead. She explored him with great care using her lips, her tongue, her fingers to examine him, to brand him, to leave her mark with kisses.

  With each one, he thought only of her. The pain of the past disappeared, giving him new memories and new sensations to savor, and, when she finally took him in her mouth, he had no thoughts at all.

  *

  Three days.

  Who would have dreamed that time could go so fast? And yet, in every one of those hours, Sophia felt more alive than she had ever been in her life. She found it difficult to explain, even to herself, how it seemed every sense was heightened – the colors around her seemed more vibrant, sounds more distinct, Kit’s every touch seemed to light a spark which touched her everywhere at once.

  Tonight was the last night she would have him. Tomorrow, the Calliope would be leaving on the dawn tide. There was a feast tonight and Giorgio had outdone himself once again. She sat alongside Kit on a bench on the deck and listened to Elias on the guitar and Jonathan on the violin play a cantabile by a sensational new Italian composer, Niccolo Paninni, followed by the Duetto Amoroso – the duet of lovers – a choice not lost on her. Then they switched to a series of folk tunes, which had everyone on their feet.

  Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die.

  Was this what it was always like for Kit and his men? A heightened drive that demanded every skerrick of life be squeezed from every moment? The past three days had given her a taste for it, too. It was addictive.

  She didn’t hesitate when Kit offered his hand. Heedless of who watched, she danced with abandon. Sophia didn’t recognize the shy mouse of a woman she had been in England – certainly Samuel no longer knew her. She giggled as she tried to imagine the expression of the beau monde if they could see her now.

  Kit didn’t know the cause of her mirth. He spun her around with dizzying speed. She pressed herself against his body and gave in to the joy.

  She sipped more of her wine and watched Elias played a capriccio on the guitar.

  Stomp! Stomp!

  Kit stomped his feet again, then kicked heel to toe, beating out a quick rhythm while his arms slowly and sinuously moved upwards. Then the music became faster. Kit kept time, showing effortless grace in his movements. He was all lithe power and decadent sensuality. And he was hers.

  He danced and his eyes never left hers, they drew her in and, before she could give a conscious thought, she was on her feet tapping the swift marcando in time with the music. The crew and friends of the Calliope cheered.

  She kept her chin raised. Kit’s eyes flared with desire, recognizing the challenge in it. He stepped to Elias’ side to give her more room. She grabbed her skirt and flicked it out, then raised her arms until they were level with her shoulders, elbows bent. She concentrated on her footwork in time to the music. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, remembering the steps of the escobilla she had once seen at a fiesta. She heard Kit call out encouraging words in Spanish – jaleos – a sign of approval from one flamenco dancer to another.

  Her heart pounded, breaths came in rushed puffs, but she reveled in the applause. The music continued and Kit joined her in a complex contra tiempo and the applause lasted long after Elias stopped playing.

  Kit swept her up into his arms. “It’s late! The party is over! Don’t you all have homes to go to?”

  She blushed at the good-natured ribbing and snuggled against his chest while he took the aft steps two at a time until he reached the captain’s cabin and kicked the door closed behind them.

  *

  Sophia said a prayer of thanks for Uncle Jonas’ absentmindedness. His letter arrived the day of Kit’s departure, full of half-completed thoughts and questions. And a scrip for ten pounds to be drawn on his bank in Palermo.

  Would she find out the year Syracuse fell to the Greeks? And the villa on Catallus, he appeared to have mislaid his notes. Would she kindly prepare him a new set of drawings, dimensions and sketches of artwork? Because he was certain he could find out the name of the original owner. He had also taken the liberty of writing Professor Giovanni Mazzara from the university to provide her with every assistance.

  God bless him.

  She threw herself into the task with enthusiasm, spending most days in her bedroom above Morwena’s shop.

  She hadn’t dared ask Kit the question of how long he expected to be gone. It was a question he did not know the answer to, though she was desperately afraid she did: forever.

  Of Samuel, she saw nothing. Their relationship was irretrievably broken. Her pen shook in her hand and she put it down, lest she spot the journal with ink. How dare he make Laura’s disappearance her fault? How dare he? He was always so quick to abrogate his responsibility. He never made a decision without prompting or direction. At least she had tried.

  She recalled the end of her meeting with Selim Omar. He had admitted only a passing knowledge of the attack on the Triumphant.

  “It is my business to know of such things,” he had said, “but be assured I was unaware of your cousin’s disappearance. You would do anything to be with her again, would you not?”

  “I would.”

  The man had taken her hand and looked into her eyes. “Then I will do what I can.”

  Now, even more time had slipped by. She took a deep breath and stared out the window. Monte Pellegrino was bathed in autumn sunshine. A meager breeze cooled her face and eventually her temper. Perhaps she should leave her work and walk to the harbor…

  She dismissed the thought as quickly as it formed. It would not bring Kit home any sooner. She opened the desk. Lying above a black leather-bound Bible was a rose quartz rosary – a parting gift from Kit and, next to it, a chain. She held it up to the sunlight. On it, the pendant in gold, about the size of a sixpence, glinted in the sun. In the center was a depiction of a traveler in mid-stride, his staff before him. On the man’s back was the Christ child and the words Protect Us around the image.

  Kit’s Saint Christopher’s medallion. He had placed it around her neck on the night of their reunion. She recalled the feel of it on her bare skin, warmed by Kit’s own body.

  “If I have your rosary, it’s only right I give you something of mine in return,” he told her as he removed the medal from around his neck.

  “But you should keep this, for your protection,” she whispered. Kit had shaken his head and rested his hand over hers where it lay on her breast.

  “I have you to come home to.”

  She had removed it to wash, but now she put it on again and made a vow to replace it around his neck when he returned to her.

  Her ruminations were interrupted by a knock on the door. A boy in Morwena’s employ handed her a letter.

  Not more correspondence from Uncle Jonas?

  She smiled and thanked the boy. What had he forgotten now? Sophia took the silver envelope opener from her desk, sliced opened the envelope, and pulled out the letter without looking at the address.

  Dear Sophia,

  I beg of you to forgive my foul temper. I can only blame my poor behavior on my injuries and the fear I have for our beloved Laura.

  I pray I have not destroyed our friendship; indeed you are our cousin, a dear member of the family.

  I realized much too late I have relied upon you too much and it was time I took on the responsibility of looking for my sister. To this end, I have hired a local fellow, and he is convinced he has found the scou
ndrel who has taken Laura and can arrange for her return – at a price, of course.

  And before you consider me a simpleton, willing to believe a confidence trickster, I have asked for proof – something that fool Hardacre never bothered with. He wishes to meet so I can first identify an item belonging to Laura.

  I ask, I plead, that you accompany me. You are far more familiar with Laura’s effects than I am.

  Please, can we put our differences aside for the one we love equally?

  My man is aware of your Captain Hardacre and his reputation, so I ask one thing only – do not tell him or his band of mischief-makers about my endeavors, not until Laura is safely returned to us.

  I will not do anything to endanger my sister and I trust you agree.

  Sophia put the letter down and quickly penned a reply.

  Dear Samuel,

  Of course you have my support and my discretion.

  Just tell me when and where.

  Your faithful cousin,

  Sophia.

  The light drizzle became a steady downpour. Sophia put down her portmanteau and raised the hood of her dark cloak.

  The shop was empty. She hesitated and not just because of the rain. Perhaps she should leave a note. “Just out on an errand”, but then she didn’t know how long this “errand” would take.

  “I’m going to spend some time with Samuel”. Yes, that will do. She penned the note, waved the paper dry, folded it in half and slipped a corner beneath the cash ledger.

  She dodged the rain between overhanging balconies and awnings and had just reached the via Immanuel when she heard her name called.

  Samuel leaned out the window of his carriage and waved her over.

  She alighted, then brushed droplets from her cloak and asked, “Where are we going?”

  “To a villa outside of the city.”

  “Why so far? Who is this person?”

  “Do you always ask so many questions?”

  “It’s not the first time I’ve been asked that. And you haven’t answered any of them.”

  Samuel sighed, a long drawn out affair it was, too.

  “Because this man, Ahmed Sharrouf, doesn’t want to be seen meeting us. He’s taking a tremendous risk. If his compatriots caught him, well…” Samuel gave her a glance. “I wouldn’t like to tell you how ruthless these men can be.”

  “Oh, I think I have a fair idea already.”

  Samuel gave her a curious look. She was not inclined to elucidate.

  “How did you meet this Ahmed Sharrouf?”

  “Actually, he approached me.”

  “Really?” Sophia folded her arms and gave him a disbelieving look. She drew breath to lecture him on his naivety. This man was most likely a con artist who saw Samuel as an easy mark. But she stopped herself. It hardly mattered now; they were on their way to what would probably amount to a wild goose chase.

  She exhaled slowly. “Did he name a price?”

  “Two thousand pounds.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. That was an enormous sum! And Samuel knew it, too. He added quietly, “It may be more.”

  The rain had eased to a misty drizzle by the time the carriage came to a stop. The villa was perched on the edge of a ravine. On a clear day, Sophia was sure she would be able to see down into Palermo. The villa wasn’t as large as a palazzo, but it looked neat and well kept.

  An older woman with a rounded figure opened the decorative wrought iron gate. They followed her beneath a stone arch and down a damp path into a cozy room where a fire blazed.

  Sophia and Samuel gave each other cautious looks before she gravitated to the fire. She removed her cloak and set it over a nearby wooden chair to dry.

  The housekeeper disappeared into another room and soon returned with a teapot and steaming mugs of what looked like tea.

  Sophia wrapped her chilled hands around the mug and took a cautious sip. It was tea, but heavily sweetened. She noted the room was charmingly furnished – not expensively, but very homey, with two stuffed chairs by the window under which stood a small table topped by a vase of local wildflowers.

  They drank their tea in silence. She listened to the pops and crackles of the fire and strained to hear any other sounds from the house.

  Were they to wait for someone? The house remained quiet and minutes ticked by with no appearance by their housekeeper. So, in the absence of their host, she poured herself another cup.

  She had half-consumed it when a man emerged from a back room. He bowed to Samuel. “Cappleman, I hope I have good news for you.” His Italian was heavily accented.

  “I hope you do, too, Sharrouf,” Samuel answered. He introduced Sophia, and she bobbed a small curtsy although it was clear the man was interested in something else.

  “Did you bring the gold?”

  Samuel glanced down to his black leather valise. “I brought seven hundred pounds. You get the rest when Laura is returned.”

  Sharrouf’s eyes lingered on the bag a moment. It was only then Sophia noticed the man was missing his left arm at the elbow.

  “Of course, of course, it’s not about the money,” he said. “It is about the return of a beautiful young woman to her family. I understand completely. But such a sum is useful for bribes – to grease a palm or two. You’re a man of the world, you understand.”

  Samuel nodded, but Sharrouf continued regardless. “First to the important business.”

  Sharrouf looked at her. “Another beauty, Effendi! God has blessed your family!”

  There was something in the man’s manner that caused the hairs at the back of her neck to rise to attention. She couldn’t begin to guess the cause of it, although it increased her caution ten-fold.

  “Get on with it!”

  Sophia started. It seemed Samuel’s patience was at an end.

  “Of course, of course.” Sharrouf held his hand towards Sophia. “Come with me, please, and see if you can identify these things as belonging to your sister.”

  Cousin. Sophia didn’t correct the man. She followed him through to another room, a bedroom. Lying on a narrow bed was a dress in dove grey, a gold hairpin topped with a large pearl, and a small gold pinkie ring. An odd hollowness opened in her stomach.

  “Yes, they belong to Laura.” It was little more than a whisper before the room started to spin and go black.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  At first, Sophia thought she was dreaming. She was aboard the Calliope once more and felt the now familiar motion of the ship as it surged through the waves. She kept her eyes closed and listened. Her limbs were heavy, weighted by deep lethargy. She felt disinclined to move them, so she listened, waiting for the voices of the men she had come to know so well to make themselves clear.

  She waited and her heart tumbled a few beats, aware of something her conscious mind had not yet considered. The sound of the waves moving past the hull near her head were too regular, too rhythmic, to be natural. Now her heart kept time with the beating of a drum audible over the sound of the sea.

  It wasn’t the Calliope.

  Her heart hammered in her chest, desperate to wake up her body. Panic replaced the air that rightfully belonged in her lungs. She emerged from the remains of her unnatural slumber with a heaving gasp and opened her eyes to heavy shadows. The cabin in which she lay was lit only by one deck light. There was no porthole.

  She raised a fist to rub sleep from her eyes, and her arm struggled to support itself. The limb shook and dropped to the thin mattress on which she lay. She tried again and met with success.

  The smell of incense, thick and sweet, blocked her nostrils to everything else; not even the salty tang of the sea could penetrate. She found her feet with great effort and stumbled, barefooted, to the door, desperate to fill her lungs with fresh air. Pinpricks of tears filled her eyes. She blinked them away and twisted the knob. It didn’t move. Sophia tried again more forcefully but it only moved an eighth of a turn.

  Locked. She was locked in a small cabin with no air, being tr
ansported God knows where. Samuel! Where was Samuel?

  Kit!

  Sophia closed her eyes, and she recalled every feature – his bright, blond hair, hazel eyes shot with green and blue, sensuous lips, his lithe, muscular form kissed by the sun. In her mind, he was perfect, like the ancient Greek statues she had had the pleasure to touch. But marble was cold. Kit Hardacre had been flesh and blood, human and flawed. How she hated to watch the man she loved punish himself over and over again to purge himself of a sin not his. It was a brutal penitence he insisted on performing. And yet she understood him only too well.

  She forced her panic down. Falling to hysterics wouldn’t help now. The last thing she remembered was identifying Laura’s clothes then feeling ill. Her knees gave way now and she fell to the floor. She rested her head against the sturdy, wooden door where she could hear the muffled sounds of men passing, loud voices speaking in a language she didn’t understand, the cadence rapid and harsh without the musicality of Italian or Spanish, or the precision of English.

  She stood, legs braced to accept the movement of the ship, and looked about her. She would need a weapon, something small, and pray she would not have to use it. She was under no illusion about her chances in a physical altercation with a man.

  Be as cunning as a serpent and as harmless as a dove.

  Cunning. She would be cunning.

  *

  Sophia ignored the hands on her, the unnecessary touching of the male attendant.

  Selim Omar just sat there and watched her being stripped out of her English walking dress. It was clear he meant to humiliate her, asserting his authority without ever once laying a hand on her.

  She kept her eyes on the man who, in the eyes of the law of his culture, now owned her. She was fully naked, and the hands upon her continued – up her flanks, between her legs, the curve of her bottom, the underside of her breasts.

  The emir watched where the hands travelled with what seemed a benign indifference. There did not seem to be lust in his eyes, nor the breathtaking desire and passion that colored Kit’s eyes when he made love to her.