Charity's Cross

by Marylu Tyndall

Caleb gripped his arm. “Elias. She’s right. You must trust God with her fate.”

  Groaning, Villemont rose, blood dripping from his nose. He hobbled toward them, and before Elias could react, he dragged Charity beside him once again.

  Caleb yanked Elias, drawing his gaze, and shaking his head as if to say, “let it be.”

  Elias tore from his grip and shoved a hand through his hair. His sword lay at his feet, ready to retrieve and continue the fight. How could he allow the woman he loved to die when it was within his power to save her?

  Leave her in My hands…

  Nay! He groaned. Father, No! How can I?

  Yet hadn’t both Caleb and Rose told Elias he must learn to rely on God—to do his best, do what God commands, and then trust Him for the rest?

  Despite every urge within Elias, he knew this was one of those times. Blast it all! This was one of those times.

  Yet his fingers ached to slice Lord Villemont in half, dispatch the rest of these blackguards, and run away with Charity to the ends of the earth… to keep her safe and to love her the rest of her days.

  “Enough of this!” Villemont dragged a sleeve over his nose and yanked Charity toward the door. He snapped his fingers for his men to follow. Backing away, they kept eyes on Elias, pistols raised.

  Elias followed them outside, shoving his way toward Charity. “A moment with the lady,” he told, rather than asked, Villemont.

  The man spun on his heel, studied Elias, then snorted in disdain. “A moment is all you’ll get.”

  For the second time in twenty-four hours, Elias pulled his cross over his head and handed it to Miss Charity Westcott.

  She shook her head, a tear glistening down her cheek. “I can’t.”

  He grabbed her hand, placed the cross inside, and closed it again. “I love you, Charity.”

  Villemont’s men chuckled as Villemont grunted in disgust and hauled her toward the waiting carriage.

  She glanced over her shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Elias. For everything,” she said before Villemont assisted her inside. The last vision he had of her before the carriage ambled away was her sweet face in the window, mouthing the words. I love you.

  Elias dropped to his knees and growled in agony.

  Chapter 30

  One of Villemont’s lackeys opened the cabin door, and Charles shoved Charity inside. She gripped the edge of a table to keep from falling, then looked up to find Sophie running toward her, arms wide.

  Sophie!

  “Oh, my dear, my dear!” The woman embraced her so hard, they both nearly fell backward. “Are you all ri’? I were so worried for you.”

  “Yes, I’m all right, Sophie.” Charity hugged her back, feeling an urge to shout with glee at the woman’s presence, but unable to lure any joy out of her despair.

  “Touching,” Villemont spat, leaning against the door frame. “No doubt the maid was complicit in your crime.”

  Releasing Sophie, Charity faced Charles. “Leave her out of it! She had naught to do with anything.”

  “Humph. We shall let a court decide. In the meantime, get used to seeing these four walls. You’ll be imprisoned here the entire voyage back to Portsmouth.”

  “But you’ve allowed me out, milord.” Stepping forward, Sophie wrung her hands together.

  “You, I can tolerate. But this”—he gestured toward Charity with a snarl—“Why upset an otherwise pleasant voyage with the sight of her?”

  He continued to stare her up and down, his cold eyes like those of a serpent ready to strike, and Charity remembered all the times they had laughed together at dinner parties. He’d always treated her with kindness, welcoming her into the family, though she was but the daughter of an admiral. But because his loyalty and love for his brother had been more than evident, she’d kept silent about her husband’s cruelty. Now, she saw she’d been right to do so. At least she’d made one wise decision.

  His eyes moistened as if he saw his brother in her eyes. Then clearing his throat, he turned and marched away. The door slammed and locked shut from the outside, and Charity sank onto the only chair in the room.

  She wanted to cry, but couldn’t. Instead, she turned to Sophie, dear, sweet Sophie, who stared at her with concern.

  “I’m so sorry he found you, milady.” She knelt before Charity and took both her hands. “I were prayin’ and prayin’ for him to never catch you.”

  “Thank you, Sophie. ’Tis I who should apologize. Look what I’ve got you mixed up in.” Charity stood and took the three steps to the other side of the cabin, longing to pound on the bulkhead, scream at the top of her lungs, cry herself into blissful oblivion. “Pray, how did you get on Charles’ ship?”

  “He caught me at Nassau, milady,” Sophie squeaked out.

  Charity turned to face her as guilt clambered atop her sorrow.

  Sophie shook her head. “I didn’t tell him nothin’, milady. Besides, I didn’t know where you were. But he kept insistin’ I mi’ be useful in findin’ you.” Tears rolled down her chubby, red cheeks.

  Charity hugged her. “Sophie, sweet Sophie. This is all my fault. He’s kept you imprisoned in this cabin the entire time?”

  “It weren’t too bad, milady. They fed me well and allowed me on deck durin’ the day. Some of the sailors been nice to me. And Lord Villemont…I can’t get used to callin’ him that, after wha’ happened…”—she gave Charity a look of horror—“told me he’d take me back to England when all this were done.”

  “I’m thankful he’s been kind to you. ’Tis just me he hates.”

  “Nay, milady. Once he gets to know you. Once he hears wha’ happened.”

  “I don’t believe he’s in a listening mood, nor an understanding one.” Easing an arm around Sophie, she drew her close. “At least you will be safe once we arrive home.”

  “But where ’ave you been, milady? Wha’ happened to you in Nassau?”

  “A long story.” Charity finally found a smile as she pressed fingers against Elias’ cross beneath her bodice. “And it would seem we have plenty of time for me to share every detail.”

  As it turned out, it took several hours to relay her adventures to Sophie. The maid sat on the edge of the bunk, gazing up at Charity as she paced and recalled her every move since last they’d seen one another on board the Neptune. Gasps of shock, exclamations of glee, tears, and even a little laughter provided Charity the impetus to continue. Sophie was particularly happy that Charity had made peace with God.

  “Tha’s what I were prayin’ for, milady.” Sophie wiped a tear from her eye.

  Charity stopped and studied the woman. She’d never considered that Sophie prayed for her. Reaching out, she squeezed the maid’s hand. “Your prayers worked. Thank you, Sophie.”

  Charity tried to avoid talking overmuch about Elias, for fear she’d melt into a weeping blob of uselessness from which she’d never recover. But ’twas impossible not to speak of him and all his courageous deeds, rescuing her from all manner of dangers and peril of her own making. She did cry. A little. And every time she did, Sophie drew her down to sit beside her and hugged her until she calmed.

  Now, as the maid snored from the tiny bunk, Charity sat in the chair and envied Sophie’s peaceful sleep. With no window, she had no way to gauge whether ’twas night or day, though she knew by the water roaring against the hull and the teeter-tottering of the deck, the ship had set sail hours ago. No food or water had been brought, and the oil in the lantern was running out.

  Finally it sputtered and choked its last breath, and a black shroud dropped on Charity. Despair set in. Agonizing despair. Terror gnawed at her soul. Had she done the right thing? She ran a hand over her belly as renewed tears filled her eyes. “Oh, my poor baby. Will I ever see you? Will I ever hold you? Or will they whisk you away before I’ve had a chance, and then lead me to the noose? Oh, God.” She dropped her head in her hands. “I did what You said. Now, what is to become of us?”

  Yet as she sat there, her sobs rising to compete with the
creak and groan of the ship and rush of water, she heard one simple word loud and clear. And that word was …

  Trust.

  Tugging out Elias’ cross, she cradled it in her hands. Trust. “All right, Father. I will try.”

  The next week crawled by like a snake through molasses. And despite all efforts to the contrary, Charity’s faith oft abandoned her, stealing all her hope with it. During those darkest moments, when her body convulsed with grief and terror, she would pull out Elias’ cross and hold it to her bosom. It became dearer to her than life itself—a lifeline, reminding her of God’s sacrifice for her, Elias’ love, and the truth that everyone had their own cross to bear if they were to be called children of God. Just feeling the sturdy wood in her hands brought comfort and settled her spirit enough to hear God’s voice within, reassuring her all was well.

  Once again, Charity didn’t know what she would do without Sophie’s uplifting manner and encouraging words. Though Charity was not permitted above, Sophie brought back tales of the sun, sea, and sailors, along with the scent of salty brine that Charity had grown to love so much. The maid even requested that they pray together three times a day for God to rescue them, to free Charity, and to keep the babe in her womb safe and healthy. Charity treasured those times, for they never failed to feed her dwindling hope.

  Other times, however, in the long reaches of the night, doubt taunted her, accusing God of being unfaithful and uncaring. She knew it wasn’t true. But it took all her strength—and much of God’s, she imagined—to cling to the robe of her divine Savior and believe He would turn around, take pity on her, and come to her aid.

  She also prayed for Elias. She had broken his heart and destroyed his life just like Rachel. He deserved so much better. And as hard as it was, she prayed for God to send him the perfect woman.

  On one such long night, while Sophie’s snores competed with the creak of wood, Charity held Elias’ cross close to her bosom and prayed for him, sobbing and moaning and pleading for his happiness. Sometime near what must be dawn—due to the sounds of movement on the deck above—pain shot through her womb so intense, she cried out and woke Sophie.

  “I’m goin’ to tell his lordship about the babe,” Sophie announced as she donned her gown. “They aren’t feedin’ you well, and it’s bad for the wee one.”

  “Please don’t, Sophie. I don’t want him to steal my child.” Pressing a hand to her belly, Charity rose. “Besides, I’m feeling better now.”

  “If you go to prison, he’ll get the babe anyway, soon as it’s born.” Sophie stuffed hair inside her mobcap. “This way, least you’ll get decent food, and the babe won’t be stillborn.”

  Charity hadn’t the strength to stop the maid as she banged on the door until the guard opened it, then dashed out. Blowing out a ragged sigh, she decided ’twas best to get dressed for the inevitable meeting with Charles. One she was not looking forward to.

  Five minutes later, still light-headed and with a dull throb wracking her womb, she hadn’t made much progress.

  She attempted to slip her arm through one side of her bodice when the lock jangled, the door slammed open, and in hobbled Charles. Her bare breasts nearly exposed beneath a sheer chemise, she shrieked and turned her back to him.

  The back that was marked with scars from her husband’s cigar.

  ♥♥♥

  Charles Gregson, Lord Villemont, stopped in mid-stride, his fury instantly extinguished by the sight of dozens of burn marks on Charity’s back—perfectly circular pink scars that curdled her skin like holes in Swiss cheese.

  Charity screeched. “I beg you to leave, milord, until I am dressed.”

  “Of course,” Charles mumbled out, still wincing at the sight as he slipped from the cabin and shut the door. He stood there staring at the oak for several minutes, his mind in chaos, his emotions trampled. He stood there until that silly maid ambled down the companionway, carrying the pitcher of water she’d requested for her mistress, along with a plate of dried biscuits.

  “Milord?” She gazed at him inquisitively.

  He coughed and straightened his cravat. “I’ll send a man to escort Lady Villemont to my cabin in an hour. Make sure she is ready.” Then leaning on his cane, he marched as quickly as he could away from the confusing scene.

  Confusing, indeed. In truth, confusion had surrounded him, knotting both his thoughts and feelings, ever since the morning at the Bennett estate when he’d caught Charity. Or rather, when she had willingly surrendered to a fate that would surely end in her death.

  Ignoring the greetings of passing sailors, Charles mounted a ladder and made his way down another hall to his cabin. He closed the door behind him and leaned back onto the hard wood, wishing he could close out the tormenting thoughts afflicting his mind.

  He’d always prided himself on understanding the human psyche—what made people do what they did. But that morning, as he’d watched Charity sacrifice herself for no reason he could fathom, he found himself utterly and completely baffled. In addition, ’twas clear to all present that Mr. Dutton and his men could easily defeat the toads Charles had hired. Forsooth, he could see the fury in the man’s eyes, could almost taste his desire to do him harm. Had tasted it, in fact. Charles rubbed his jaw, still sore from the man’s assault, and made his way to a table where he poured a glass of brandy.

  Why hadn’t Mr. Dutton defeated him and taken Charity for himself? ’Twas the second question that had haunted him since they’d set sail.

  And now, the babe. His brother’s child growing in that witch’s womb! He tossed the brandy to the back of his throat and let out a foul curse. Mayhap ’twas not even his brother’s. Herbert had always said Charity was naught but a trollop. However, on the chance she carried his niece or nephew, Charles proceeded to summon his cabin boy and ordered him to bring two meals forthwith. Then dropping into a chair, he poured himself another drink, and waited for his sister-in-law.

  By the time she arrived, Charles was on his third glass of Brandy, and feeling rather relaxed. And audacious. “Ah, here comes my brother’s murderer!” He greeted her as his man escorted her inside. “Do come in and have a seat.” He nodded for the man to leave them, and the door slammed shut.

  Charity stood, chin up, staring straight at him. “You wanted to see me.”

  “I wouldn’t exactly use the word want.”

  The savory scents from two plates of eggs, sausage, rice, bananas, and fresh coffee drew her gaze to the table where his cabin boy had placed the meals.

  “For you, my dear.” Charles gave a tight smile. “Help yourself. Your maid informs me we aren’t feeding you enough. At least not for two.”

  “I wish she hadn’t told you.” She swallowed and placed a hand on her belly.

  Strands of brown hair dangled about her neck, a rather lustrous, creamy neck, framed by a lace-embroidered gold bodice that led down to emerald satin skirts. Even with wrinkled attire and shadows beneath her red, swollen eyes, she was a comely woman. Charles had never questioned his brother’s attraction. Only why he had married so far beneath him.

  “Why do you wish she hadn’t told me?” He sneered as the deck tilted slightly, and she stumbled. “Because the babe isn’t Herbert’s?”

  “How dare you?” Chest heaving, her eyes became slits. “Unlike your brother, I was always faithful in our marriage.”

  “Hmm.” He eyed her. “Do sit and eat.” He gestured toward a chair beside the table.

  “I’m not hungry.” She slid onto the chair anyway and pursed her lips. “What do you intend to do with my child?”

  Setting down his drink, Charles rose, but the room spun, and he quickly sat back down. Footsteps pounded above, along with the snap of sails shifting in the wind. The deck tilted, and Charles rubbed his temples, seeking clarity…seeking answers. “Why did you surrender to me, Charity? When you were clearly free.”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “I insist.” He gazed up at her.

  “God
told me to.”

  With an unavoidable chuckle, Charles poured himself more brandy. “Indeed? God speaks to harlot murderesses?”

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” She gave a curt smile. “In truth, Char—Lord Villemont, I have learned much about God these past weeks. I have learned that no matter the circumstances, He never leaves us, and we must trust Him to see us through and make good of it in the end.”

  “Humph. Was God making good of it for my brother the day you shot him?” He sipped his drink, his anger returning.

  “God cannot help those who refuse His help.”

  “What foolishness is this? Herbert was a pious man, an honorable man!” He slammed down his drink.

  She returned his gaze with one that was oddly calm. “Pious, perhaps. But he didn’t know God.”

  Rising, he hobbled toward her and shoved his glass in her face. Brandy sloshed over the side—a waste of good liquor on this tramp. “What right does a heartless murderer have to judge anyone’s faith? My brother attended church whenever the doors opened. He could recite every prayer from the Book of Common Prayers. How many men can claim the same?”

  To her credit, she didn’t cower beneath his temper. She merely sat, back straight, staring into the cabin. “Never again. Never will I allow you or any man cause me to live in fear.” Her words were soft, yet defiant, and he sensed a strength in them he’d not known she possessed.

  Charles stepped back, and she gazed up at him. “Knowing God has naught to do with those things.”

  “Pshaw!” He stumbled back to the table and set down his glass. Enough Brandy. ’Twas making him soft and ignorant, for deep in the recesses of his mind, the woman’s words began to make sense. Memories of his brother drinking to excess, gambling, and womanizing rose to taunt Charles’ defense of him. And his temper! A vicious, explosive temper that sent everyone in its path scrambling for cover.

  Shaking off the memories, Charles snorted. “And what of your lover, this Mr. Dutton? Seems his affection for you wasn’t enough to cause him to risk his life.”