by Guida, ML
Freedom was within her grasp.
She turned the key, and the lock clicked. She smiled, then carefully opened the door. The hallway was empty. She slipped out of the room, then stuck the key back into the lock to make them think she was still imprisoned inside.
She tiptoed across the hardwood floor and pressed her back against the wall before she peered down the spiral staircase. Muffled voices carried up the stairwell.
Holding her breath, Rosalind slipped down the stairwell. As she drew closer, the voices grew louder. Mother and Mr. Doyle were in the sitting room.
“Esmond, I don’t understand, why are you banishing Rosalind to her room? What has she done?”
“I told you, dear. She was disrespectful to me in my establishment, which is something I will not tolerate.”
As always, her stepfather’s voice was patient and condescending with her mother, as if she were a small child. Rosalind would hate to have a man treat her as if she were too dense to understand and only dressed to look pretty. With her mask and scars, she’d not have to worry about the latter. She frowned. Why did Captain Foster want her anyway? ´Twas not like he would receive a respectable dowry.
But that didn’t matter right now.
She carefully inched toward the door, praying that she wouldn’t encounter a servant or have either her stepfather or her mother catch her. She put her shaking hand on the doorknob and turned. She glanced over her shoulder to find Maggie watching her with pity in her eyes. Rosalind placed her index finger to her trembling lips and glanced nervously toward the parlor. Maggie nodded then smiled.
“Maggie, dear,” Rosalind’s mother called from the parlor. “Would you bring us some tea and my fan? ´Tis becoming dreadfully hot.”
“Yes, Aunt,” Maggie answered.
She turned to leave for the kitchen, and Rosalind quietly slipped out the door to inhale the smell of sweet freedom.
Rosalind leisurely moved down the steps, knowing ´twas scandalous not to have an escort. But her stepfather wasn’t an escort, he was a jailer.
A horseman galloped down the road, and Rosalind groaned. ’Twas Captain Foster. She slid behind a giant oak tree.
Captain Foster hurried up the steps, then pounded rapidly on the door. “Doyle, Doyle, open the door.”
Maggie opened the door.
Rosalind held her breath, hoping he wasn’t there to see her.
“Good afternoon, sir,” Maggie said.
The lack of enthusiasm in her voice made Rosalind cover her mouth to keep from chuckling.
“Maggie, I must speak to Mr. Doyle. ’Tis urgent.”
Rosalind thought she detected a hint of fear. Intrigued, she edged around the tree trunk.
“Foster, what is wrong with you?” Mr. Doyle was less than pleased.
Captain Foster mopped his forehead with a silk handkerchief. “I must speak to you in private.”
Mr. Doyle flicked his hand. “Very well. If you will excuse us, Maggie.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Foster, you’re pale. What is the matter?”
“Vincent DiSanti is dead. Murdered. A va–”
She gasped.
“Hush, fool. Let us retire to my study.”
Rosalind leaned against the tree. Vincent DiSanti was dead? He was a member of Mr. Doyle’s Gentlemen’s club. Mr. Doyle would often go to a local warehouse to discuss business, but Rosalind suspected it was a gambling den. Not that she cared. It kept her stepfather busy and out of the house.
She thought of DiSanti. He was about fifteen years younger. A rich man’s son, he believed he was entitled to whatever he wanted–including women. She would have considered him handsome with his chiseled features and deep brown eyes if he hadn’t been such a brute. He’d forced himself on women he felt were beneath him. Although he was small for a man, he had powerful arms and an insatiable lust.
Whoever killed him would bring a smile to his victims. Rosalind had been lucky he’d never turned her way, but then again, she wore a mask and would have been less than perfect for him.
She hoped her stepfather’s and Captain Foster’s fear would have them contemplate what to do so she could get word to the provost.
She needed to tell someone what her stepfather had been doing at the Pirate’s House Inn, but the provost was a short way to Wright Square, and she’d create a stir without having an escort. Maybe she could tell someone what was going on and they could relay. Unfortunately, she couldn’t save the drunken man that both her stepfather and Captain Foster had forced down the tunnel, but maybe she could save someone else.
Not knowing where else to go, she crossed Abercorn toward Colonial Cemetery, which was more of a meadow than a graveyard. Father was buried there. She walked along a trodden path that led her to an oak tree, dripping with Spanish moss. She stood in front of his grave, which was more of a little mound where white, star-shaped thimbleweed flowers grew. She took out the pocket watch and caressed it with her fingers. The bubbled, worn surface was cool and gave her comfort. Like her, ’twas badly scarred.
She took a deep breath and inhaled the sweet fragrance that always wiped away the gloom. Sometimes, she swore she could feel his presence–his strong arms wrapped around her, protecting her from her cruel world.
But he wasn’t here.
He wasn’t coming.
She was alone and frightened.
Rosalind wiped away a stray tear. She wasn’t sure what to do next, but if she did nothing, Captain Foster and her stepfather would continue to kidnap innocent men.
A slight breeze blew and wrestled her father's flowers, giving her courage. She was about to turn and go to town to tell the constable, when a strong voice stopped her in her tracks.
“Good mornin’ to ye, Miss Gill.”
She jumped and whirled around to look into Phearson MacFie’s handsome face. She shoved the watch back into her pocket. He bowed slightly and flashed her a grin that would have melted many a young girl’s heart. She hadn't even heard him approach.
Her heart pumping fast, she frowned. “What are you doing here?”
The mischief in his eyes disappeared, replaced with a scowl. “What happened to yer face?"
His hard voice reminded her of her stepfather, and she took a step away from him.
Heat washed over her. She always dreaded that question. She avoided looking into his eyes. “I was burned in a fire when I was a baby. If you’ll excuse me–”
He grabbed her arm. “I'm not talkin’ about yer mask. I’m talkin’ about the bruise on yer cheek."
“Mr. Doyle was angry with me."
"What could ye have done that would have deserved this?”
His voice softened, and he ran the back of his hand down her mask.
She wasn’t used to people touching her mask and pulled on her arm. “Release me.”
He loosened his grip, but not enough for her to break free. “Not until ye tell me why he hit ye.”
“I argued with him.”
“About?”
She was too scared to tell him about the tunnel. “An arranged marriage, if you must know.”
“To who?”
“Captain Barnard Foster.”
“The pasty cod-fish at the Pirate’s House Inn?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Ye deserve a better man than him.”
“’Tis not like I have men standing in line to court me, Mr. MacFie.”
“Please call me Phearson.” He released her then gently captured her chin, his thumb caressing her masked cheek. “I would.”
She stood perfectly still, not sure what to do. No man had ever touched her mask. Her heart beat faster and faster as he bent his head, then he tenderly brushed his lips over hers in a soft, sweet caress. She’d never been kissed by a man and froze. She’d never thought any man would want to kiss her.
The door slammed across the street, and she jumped.
Her stepfather stood on the porch. “Rosalind? Where are you, girl?” He walked down the po
rch and around the yard, looking behind the shrubs and trees where she used to hide as a little girl.
“Phearson, you must leave.”
Panic sucked away her courage. If her stepfather saw them kissing, he’d do worse than just slap her. “He’ll be angry if he sees you.”
“Why?”
“Because he would think ’tis scandalous.”
“Then we’ll have to do more than a brief kiss.”
Warmth flushed over her cheeks.
“Rosalind, where the devil are you?"
Her stepfather shielded his eyes and looked up and down the street. His face was beet red, and his voice struck terror in her heart. Luckily, he hadn't seen her yet.
Captain Foster waited on the porch, sipping some tea. He never wanted to engage in manual labor, and hunting for a runaway fiancée would fall into that category. How could she hope to be married to such a man?
“Please, let me go before he finds me or Captain Foster sees me. I must get to the provost.”
“Over an arranged marriage?” Phearson’s eyes softened. “Ye think the provost will do something about your stepfather hitting ye? This is a man’s world, and yer stepfather is a powerful man.” He looked over her head. “Maybe I can help ye.”
She rubbed her tender cheek. “No, ’tis not that. ’Tis something I saw.” She lowered her voice, so her stepfather wouldn’t hear.
“What did ye see?” He pushed her hair behind her ear. “Dona worry, he’s gone back around the house. Tell me before ’tis too late. In my experience, secrets are never good. People die over them.”
His touch sent shivers down her back. She bit her lip and glanced over her shoulder. “Mr. Doyle and Captain Foster are drugging men at the Inn, then selling them to pirates. There’s an underground tunnel beneath the bar. I saw–”
“Rosalind, you foolish girl.”
Mr. Doyle was storming across the street. Rosalind gasped. There was no escape. She was trapped between two forceful men.
“Please, don’t tell him what I told you.”
“Never.” Anger blazed in Phearson’ eyes. “I wona let him hurt ye.”
She stared at his broad back, bewildered that he actually was trying to protect her when no one else ever had––not even her mother.
“Thank goodness you found her, MacFie. Her mother, fiancé, and I were worried sick about her.”
"Strange, ye would say that since she has a shiny, purple bruise on her cheek.” Phearson’ voice shook with contempt.
Ignoring Phearson’s scorn, her stepfather said, “Rosalind, what are you doing wandering over here? ’Tis not safe.”
Rosalind peered around Phearson. “I wanted to visit Father’s grave.” Her voice wavered.
“Then you should have asked someone to attend you.”
“I attended her, since she obviously is in need of protection,” Phearson said, his voice edged with violence.
Mr. Doyle slowed his steps, and for the first time, hesitation flickered in his once angry eyes. No one had ever challenged his treatment of her. He cleared his voice. “Do you actually think I would hurt the poor girl? I'm afraid to say she's very clumsy and ran into the wall this morning.”
Rosalind scoffed and immediately regretted it. Her stepfather narrowed his eyes at her, and she looked down at her feet.
“Is that so?” Phearson asked. “I worked with her these past few nights at the Inn, and I never saw her trip once.”
"Well," her stepfather blustered, “then you were not watching her closely. I must insist that you release her to me at once. It’s not proper for her to be out here without a respectable escort.” He glanced over his shoulder.
Captain Foster had puffed out his chest, flashing a glare that would have curdled milk.
Mischief flicked in Phearson’s eye. “Meaning, I am not a suitable escort?”
Mr. Doyle puffed out his chest and reached for Rosalind. “Yes. Rosalind, come with me.”
Phearson blocked his path and towered over her stepfather. “I trust that ye will make sure Rosalind will not fall again. I would hate to think clumsiness runs in the family.”
The hint of violence in his voice made her stepfather’s face pale.
“Of course.”
Rosalind looked up at Phearson, still not comprehending why he was defending her? She was scarred, and no man wanted a flawed wife. Hadn’t Mr. Doyle and her mother told her as much? But Phearson had done more than just defend her, he’d kissed her. She touched her lips, savoring the taste of his masculinity that reminded her of a sea breeze.
Phearson put his hand on Rosalind’s waist and maneuvered her to Mr. Doyle, who gave her another terrifying scowl that made her legs tremble. He seized her hand, squeezing it tight. She winced but was smart enough not to cry out. It would only make matters worse.
“I will see ye tonight, my lady.” Phearson bowed. “I have some matters to attend.” He gave her a wink.
She rolled her tongue over her tender lips, remembering his sweet kiss, and heat flushed from her head to her toes. She liked kissing him.
As he turned to leave, she hoped he would go to the provost. Except for her father, the men in her life had yet to live up to their word.
Her stepfather leaned close to her ear. “You leave your room again, and you’ll not walk for a week.”
Rosalind refused to answer, but she detected fear in his voice, as if he were afraid of what Phearson might do if he hurt her.
Chapter 7
Phearson headed down the cobblestone road to the riverfront. A carriage creaked by, the horses’s hooves clomping on the stone. Men and women walked down the street linked arm in arm, pretending not to notice him. Phearson was too busy sorting out his thoughts to care.
He’d been watching Doyle’s house, waiting to see if someone would have reported DiSanti’s death to him. But he’d also wanted to make sure Rosalind was fine. Now, he couldn’t forget how her lips tasted like honey out of his mind. Despite her hard shell, she had a soft side that he wanted to explore.
Doyle was no better than Palmer. No, he was worse. Palmer didn’t hide his deviant acts behind a mask of decency. He wore his deeds proud and true. Doyle was a hypocrite, but Phearson had learned that men like him were much more dangerous because they had more to lose.
At home, the priest of his small parish had been seducing or raping the young boys in their town. Father O’Malley had cornered Phearson one night late in the church. Phearson had pulled out a blade and struck the man across the cheek. O’Malley had cried out, giving Phearson time to escape. The priest had blamed the cut on his cheek and the molestation of the other boys on a poor man troubled with liquor. An angry mob formed around the man and hanged him. Phearson had wanted to tell the truth, but fear had frozen him. He was poor and a thief. Who would have believed him?
’Twas something he’d often regretted.
Phearson came to the edge of the river and watched men load the ships with crates of vegetables, fruits, and fowl. He could easily join one of those crews and leave this miserable town, but if he did, people would die. The innocent vampires would be slaughtered, men would be sold into slavery, and Rosalind would be tied to a man she hated.
He sighed and followed people down the waterfront, looking for the courthouse. After asking around, he discovered that ’twas not on the riverfront, but at Wright Square. He arrived at a two story red brick building that was on the southeast corner. He walked inside and was given directions to the Provost Rocco DiSanti’s office.
So, Rocco DiSanti must be a relative of Vincent’s–perhaps his father or brother or cousin? Now, ’twas time to rip the Pious Twelve apart.
He frowned at the man sitting at the desk. He’d thought the man would be much older. He had on a white wig and was scribing on some parchment. The office was the sign of a wealthy man with the rich wood and tapestries hanging on the wall. But what caught his eye was the solid gold cross on the bookcase. It would bring a good price. How could a man who obviously considered him
self Christian sink to torturing people? Or was Rocco even part of the depraved Twelve?
He cleared his voice, “Are ye Rocco DiSanti?”
The man shook his head. “No. I am his assistant, Michael Kelley. Mr. DiSanti suffered a great loss last night. His only son was brutally murdered.”
Phearson thought DiSanti deserved to be ripped apart and had no sympathy for his father, but he kept the thought to himself. Instead, he lied. “I believe I witnessed his murder.”
Kelley stood. “Tell me what you know.”
“I know ye will not believe me, but the other night, I saw somethin’ down at the dock.”
He put both hands on his desk. “Let me be the judge of that. What did you see?”
Phearson made his voice shake. “It looked like a demon attacking two men dressed in cloaks.”
Eagerness reflected in Kelley’s gray eyes. “And?”
“First, the hugest bat I have ever seen knocked them off their horses.”
“Are you sure ’twas a bat?”
“Aye, as big as an eagle. It transformed into a man with red eyes. He attacked one of them and bit him. I could hear him, suckin’ his blood.” Phearson pushed his hand through his hair. “I know this sounds strange.”
“Please go on.” Kelley’s face paled as white as his wig. Was he one of the Twelve?
“The man gave them a choice of which one would live and the other would die.”
Kelley frowned. “You mean this man gave them a choice to decide who would die?”
“Aye. The other man threw the wounded man at this creature that killed him. I dona what happened after that. I ran.”
Kelley closed his eyes and lowered his head. “Dear God.”
“I swear I am tellin’ the truth.”
Kelley pulled away from the desk and looked at the window. Sadness replaced the fear in his eyes. “Thank you for this information. What is your name?”