Charity's Cross

by Marylu Tyndall

  The last crate was brought aboard, the boatman paid, and men leapt into the tops to lower sails. Rays of sunlight speared through the parting clouds, glistening over buildings and turning puddles into sparkling pools. And … No!

  Charles marched down the wharf from which they’d just left, his henchmen behind him, his eyes scanning the bay.

  Charity dropped to the deck.

  ♥♥♥

  The Honorable Mr. Charles Gregson, now Lord Villemont upon his brother’s death, could only stare at the woman who murdered his beloved sibling—his only brother, his only living relation. Even if he had a pistol, the bullet would never hit her from the wharf. Damnation, where were his men? He turned to see the five brutes he’d hired charging up behind him. Imbeciles. But then again, he hadn’t hired them for their brains. He’d hired them because the Constable had recommended them as good trackers, good with weapons, and the type who would look the other way if need be.

  Charles wouldn’t need that last quality. He intended to do things honorably. He intended to capture and bring his sister-in-law back to Portsmouth for trial. He’d heard enough from Jensen, his brother’s butler, along with several servants in the house, to convince him that Charity had shot and killed Herbert.

  Sorrow clamped his throat. Poor Herbert. He’d always been there for Charles, ever since they were innocent children, bearing the rod of their father’s cruelty. And by God, Charles would be there for him. He owed Herbert at least that for the many times Herbert had taken the blame and received a beating for something Charles had done.

  He slammed the tip of his cane onto the wooden dock. Yes, the woman would pay!

  A breeze flapped his cravat, and he tucked it inside his velvet coat as Charity spotted him and ducked behind the railing.

  “You can’t hide from me, little hell-cat,” he seethed into the wind.

  His men crowded behind him.

  “Is that her?” one of them asked.

  “Yes, and if you’d been here sooner, you might have captured her before the crew rowed her out. You there!” Charles yelled to a dock worker on the wharf beside theirs. “What ship is that?”

  The boy looked up and wiped rain from his eyes, then followed the point of Charles’ finger. “That be the Enmity, Sir.”

  Charles withdrew a coin from the pouch at his hip. “And would you know where she is heading?”

  Spotting the money, the lad licked his lips. “Barbados, Sir.”

  Charles flipped the coin over the watery stretch between them, and the boy caught it with a smile.

  Barbados, it is.

  ♥♥♥

  So many emotions rioted within Elias, he didn’t know which one to deal with first. Shame for his stupidity, anger at being tricked, fury at being used, fear he’d allied himself to a mad woman, and pity for whatever situation she found herself in that would cause such a desperate act. He decided to embrace anger and turned to inquire the reason for her bewildering actions …when she suddenly disappeared. A thump and an ouch drew his gaze down to a circle of damp fabric ballooning around the woman as she crouched behind the bulwarks.

  “For the love of … what are you doing, Miss?” He reached down to assist her. “Are you hurt?”

  “Shhh.” She kept her head down. “Don’t look at me.”

  Elias returned his gaze to the city, convinced even more that this poor creature was two masts short of a three-masted ship. Six men stood at the edge of the wharf staring their way. The one in front pounded his cane on the wood as if he could break through the dock itself. Odd. Perhaps they were in need of passage to Barbados as much as he was.

  Captain Littleman gave the men a cursory glance as he continued to issue orders to raise tacks and sheets and haul in the anchor. As the anchor crew heaved on the capstan and topmen inched across yards unfurling sail, Elias itched to join them. If only to get away from the mad mermaid and keep his mind off the alarming situation he found himself in—the immoral situation he found himself in. Father, I’m sorry. He breathed out a quick repentance for his rash actions. But what else could he have done? The lady was obviously in trouble. The desperate look on her face had done him in. He’d never been able to resist a woman in need, much to his own dismay—and ofttimes despair. What would God have done? Abandoned her?

  He gazed down at the puddle of wet skirts and brown hair and wondered what to do with her, when the purser, a Mr. Lawrence, approached and offered to lead them to their cabin. The man stared curiously at the lady slumped on the deck as the sails caught the wind and the ship jerked forward.

  It occurred to Elias he had no idea how to address her, so he grabbed her elbow and attempted to help her to her feet. She yanked from his touch, cast him a fiery gaze, then peered over the railing toward the city.

  “Mayhap you could hide better in your cabin.” Elias gave a tight smile to which she frowned and rose slightly, keeping her body bent. Once amidships, she stood to her full height—which only came to Elias’ chest—stuck her little nose in the air, and followed the purser.

  “’Tis the third mate’s berth,” Mr. Lawrence said as he led them down a narrow ladder below deck. “Not much, but it’ll do ye nice.” He halted before a door and flung it open. “Captain requests yer presence at dinner. Until then, ’tis best ye stay here.”

  Clutching her skirts, the lady sashayed into a cabin no bigger than a necessary room and promptly plopped onto the only wooden chair. Elias followed and tossed his case onto the cot, keeping the door ajar. Something he would have to do constantly. What in God’s name was he doing? He couldn’t share a cabin with this woman. Or with any woman! He was just a man, a young man with a young man’s passions. And he’d already proven his inability to control them.

  “I must inform you, Mr. Dutton,” the lady began. “That although the crew assumes we are man and wife, you will not lay so much as a finger on me.” She held her jaw firm, but her voice trembled, and Elias spotted fear streaking across her eyes.

  Even with skirts caked in mud and her hair a tangled mass about her face, she presented a lovely vision. Though her gown was modest, the heave of her chest drew his gaze to the swell of her bosom, rising and falling beneath the fabric. He looked away as the ship heaved and picked up speed. “Mayhap you should have thought of the consequences before you fabricated this lie. You don’t know me. Yet you put yourself completely at my mercy on board a ship full of men, most of whom would love to have their way with you.”

  The lady clutched her throat. “How dare you say such an inappropriate thing!”

  “’Twill be even more inappropriate should it come to pass.” Elias watched as the anger on her face transformed to fear. “So, why do it?”

  “Believe me when I tell you the alternative was far worse.”

  He ran a hand through his wet hair. “Worse than being ravished? Indeed, you must be in a great deal of trouble.”

  She didn’t answer, simply dropped her gaze to the deck and laid a hand on her stomach, reminding him of a kitten, a wet kitten, lost and alone.

  “Which are you then, mermaid vixen? Foolish, mad, or desperate?”

  She grabbed a tangle of hair and tugged on it, eyes narrow and defensive as if she feared he’d assault her any moment. “I‘ll admit to all three, Sir.” Her gaze lowered to the knife sheathed at his belt. “In truth, because you rescued me from the bay, I assumed you might be a decent man.”

  “You certainly didn’t treat me as such in town.”

  “I am sorry for that.”

  Feet pounded above as shouts echoed over the ship.

  Elias leaned back against the bulkhead and crossed arms over his chest. “You mean you don’t always jump over the railings of perfectly good ships? And you don’t always pretend to be married to a man so he’ll pay for your passage?”

  She gave a sarcastic huff, a slight tilt to her lips. “Only on Sundays.”

  He wanted to smile but didn’t. “You’ve nothing to fear from me, Miss.”

  “Then why agree t
o my charade? There must be something you want.”

  He shrugged. “You seemed terrified, in need of help.”

  “Nobody helps someone for nothing.”

  Her hopeless, defeated tone saddened him. Yet, if she truly believed that, then why put herself in harm’s way?

  The creak and groan of wood filled the silence as water purled against the hull.

  She picked at the lace drooping at her cuff. “My father has land in Charles Towne. He’s an admiral in the Royal navy. He will pay you for your help.”

  “Hmm. You are aware that you boarded a ship to Barbados?”

  She made no reply.

  Elias pushed from the bulkhead. “I have no desire nor need of your money, mermaid.”

  “Stop calling me that.” She wrapped arms around her belly, her eyes aflame. “’Tis all I have to give you, Mr. Dutton.” Her gaze traveled to the knife at his hip again, and he wondered if she intended to stab him with it. Ludicrous. This frightened mermaid wouldn’t be so daring. Though she was plenty foolish. Elias had seen enough foolish women to last a lifetime—trusting women, naïve women who threw themselves into dangerous situations. Two of his sisters still paid for such careless behavior.

  The deck canted. She gripped the edge of the cot and seemed about to fall. Elias headed toward her, but she jumped to her feet and backed away, glancing around the room as if just noticing where they were. “You can’t stay in here with me.”

  “Miss, if I do not stay in here, our ruse will be forfeit, and the crew will assume you are ripe for the plucking.”

  “Surely not!”

  “You don’t know sailors, Miss.”

  “And you do?”

  He did. More than she realized. “I know men,” he responded.

  She looked away, her cheeks reddening. “Well, you needn’t worry, Mr. Dutton. I can take care of myself.”

  “Apparently not or we wouldn’t be in this situation.”

  She frowned and narrowed her eyes.

  Elias sighed. Surely, God must be testing him—testing his patience, his resolve to control his urges, to do the right thing, to help a woman in need and protect her from whomever or whatever she was running from.

  He took another step toward her, hands raised. “I call a truce, Miss Mermaid. Why don’t we—”

  She plucked the knife from his belt and held the sharp tip to his chest. “Touch me and I’ll gut you.”

  The mermaid had transformed into a shark.

  Chapter 5

  Charity pressed the blade. A red dot blossomed on Mr. Dutton’s shirt. She would never allow another man to hurt her. Or her child! She had more than proven that.

  Fear made no appearance in the man’s eyes. Rather the amusement twinkling within them set her nerves on fire. Not a malicious amusement like her husband, but a genuine, warm amusement. Air heated between them as a bead of perspiration slid down her neck.

  He had the knife in his hand before she even felt his grip on her wrist. Spinning it in the air, he caught it by the handle and replaced it at his belt. “I wasn’t going to hurt you, Miss. In truth, quite the opposite.”

  Who was this man with the kind blue eyes and the sharp wit? And reflexes of a cat? His speech and mannerisms revealed education and status, but his clothes were those of a common sailor. One minute she spotted desire in his gaze, the next they were filled with concern…then annoyance…and then curiosity, like now.

  “A lady cannot be too careful,” she retorted.

  “Rarely has anyone, especially a lady, been able to relieve me of my knife.” Suspicion filled his gaze, even as a smile curved his lips. “Forsooth, I do believe the mermaid has claws.”

  “’Twas merely luck and the desire to protect myself.” She backed against the bulkhead. Though necessity had forced her to learn how to handle a knife, she wouldn’t admit that to this man.

  He studied her. “You’ll do well not to threaten the only man protecting you.”

  The ship leapt, and she stumbled and gripped the edge of a table attached to the wall. “If you refer to yourself, Sir, you would do well not to advance on a lady in private.”

  His jaw worked as if he restrained his anger. “Why don’t we start over, Miss…Miss…”

  She avoided his gaze. “Charity … Charity Vi…Westcott.”

  He quirked a brow. “Well, Miss Charity Viwestcott, mayhap I can help you if you but tell me from what or whom you are running?”

  “Just Westcott, if you please, and I’m not running from anything.” Stupid. Stupid. She shouldn’t have given him her real name.

  “Miss Westcott, I can tolerate many things, but never lying. If you speak the truth, regardless of what it is, I will understand. But you will make a quick enemy of me should you lie. Now, those men on the docks. They were after you, were they not?” He sat on the cot and stretched out his legs. Rather long muscular legs encased in leather boots to the knee.

  “I suppose so.”

  “What do they want with you?”

  Water rushed against the hull as the ship creaked over another wave. It gave her time to think of an answer. “If you must know, I broke off my engagement to the man’s brother. I fear he intends to drag me back and force me to marry him.”

  “And where is back?”

  “Ports… London.”

  “PortsLondon? You seem to have trouble with names, Miss Viwestcott.” He grinned.

  “I have a stutter, Sir.” She huffed. “Are you so cruel as to taunt me?”

  His grin reached his eyes in a twinkle of disbelief. “Is that the reason you took a swim in the bay?”

  “Why would I jump overboard because of a stutter?”

  He groaned and leaned forward on his knees. “Miss Mermaid, we are going nowhere if you continue to patronize me.”

  Charity hugged herself, though ’twas hotter than an oven in the cabin. Several strands of chestnut hair had escaped the man’s queue and hung about his face—a strong face with firm lines and noble cheekbones. His scent filled the air between them—a mixture of man and spice, and her nerves pricked at being so closely confined with him.

  Finally, he stood with a sigh. “Are you saying this man followed you all the way from England to Nassau just to force you to marry his brother?” One brow lifted tauntingly. “Do you have a large estate, an enormous dowry, perhaps? Are you the daughter of a duke? Or mayhap a close relation of the king?” He blew out a sigh and shook his head. “And why, pray tell, did you not simply seek the protection of your family?”

  “My family is in the colonies. Carolina, to be exact.” She flattened her lips.

  “Surely they did not leave you alone in PortsLondon?”

  Impudent man. “’Tis none of your business.”

  “’Tis very much my business to know the reason I am suddenly burdened with your care.”

  “Mayhap you have trouble understanding me, Mr. Dutton,” she seethed out through a forced smile. “I free you from any further burden.”

  “You may free me, Miss, but my conscience bears no such liberty.”

  She gave an incredulous snort. “Your conscience, Sir? Do people still possess such things?”

  Again he studied her with those penetrating blue eyes as a doctor would a patient, mayhap seeking the cure for whatever ailed her.

  She should save him the trouble and tell him there was no cure for her malady. And never would be.

  A sailor appeared at the door, a basin of water in hand. “Cap’n sends his regards and says ye can use this t’ clean up before supper.” He purposely brushed against Charity as he passed, dousing her with his stench of body oder.

  After setting the basin on the table, he turned and made no pretense of scanning her with his gaze. “I’ll be back to escort ye to the cap’n’s cabin at sundown.”

  “Thank you.” Mr. Dutton assisted him out the door, shut it, and turned to face her. “Perhaps you should …” He gestured toward her wet skirts and then looked away as if embarrassed. “Attempt to dry.”


  Charity found herself amused at his discomfort. “Remove my skirts to air them out? Is that what you are trying to suggest? I will do so after you leave.”

  “Believe me, I have no desire to remain.”

  She almost did believe him, so filled with disgust was his tone. “What is it you do, Mr. Dutton?”

  “I’m a preacher,” he said proudly.

  Preacher? A sour taste filled her mouth as she closed her eyes and breathed a sigh. She’d had more than her fill of clergy. Vapors, they were often worse than common laymen, preaching one thing, and then doing the opposite themselves.

  “Do you have something against preachers?”

  His playful tone brought her gaze to him. “I have everything against so-called men of God.”

  “Hmm.” He eyed her curiously. “We shall have to rectify that.”

  “Unless you like to fail, I urge you to forsake that desire. I didn’t take you for a preacher, Mr. Dutton.” He seemed too strong, confident, commanding, not mealy-mouthed, meek, and feeble like most rectors. “And just how, Mr. Preacher, will you protect me from the crew when your God demands you turn the other cheek when attacked?”

  At this he smiled. Almost a mischievous smile that defied his occupation. “You better get cleaned up and prepare for a grand performance, Miss. Viwestcott. For tonight you must pretend you are happily married to this preacher or I fear you will find out.”

  Then exiting the door, he shut it behind him.

  Charity dropped into the chair. He was right, of course. She did need him. She needed his protection and she hated herself for it. She had escaped one prison only to fling herself into another—begging the favor of a man just to live, just to survive.

  Of all the luck! She struck the chair arm. A preacher! A good-looking one at that. Regardless, she’d not allow him—or his God—to worm their way into her heart with kind, merciful words, only to stab her in the back the minute they gained her trust. Never again!

  ♥♥♥

  For a lady who had no maid, a single damp gown, salt encrusted hair, and only a basin of water, Miss Charity Westcott presented quite the vision of beauty when Elias returned to escort her to dinner. She’d even managed to pin her hair up into a bounty of coffee-colored curls at the back of her head. Refusing his arm, she followed the sailor as he led them through a maze of underground hallways to the Captain’s quarters. No bigger than a ship’s mouse in comparison to Elias and the other sailor, she seemed so vulnerable as the teetering brig tossed her back against him more than once. Each time, he felt her tremble. Did she still fear him, even after he’d told her he was a preacher? Or mayhap ’twas because he was a preacher.